Taking Flight
by April Rane
Summary: Finding herself in a relationship leaving something to be desired, Christine flees, while Erik attempts to start a new life elsewhere... Eventual EC, some EOC Rated for SLV. RR
1. Prologue

PROLOGUE

Five years. Five long years, and so much to show for it. A blanket, a pillow, and a key were all that kept her alive sometimes. She would lock herself in the closet, huddled under the quilt taken from a linen closet and sleep, praying the shouting would stop. This never should have happened. It _wouldn't_ have happened if she hadn't thought that Raoul was the better choice. But that hadn't happened. Erik was dangerous. He was insane. She had to leave with Raoul.

She regretted it now with all of her heart. She wished that she had given herself more time to decide whether or not she truly wished to marry Raoul. If she had, she would have known that she would have come second after the alcohol and the whores. She would have known that with the alcohol came an anger unlike anything she had ever seen from Erik. Bad as his temper had been, it had been nothing compared to Raoul after a night at the pub.

Never, no matter how long she lived, would she forget the first night Raoul had truly drunk himself senseless. Before passing out on the floor of the foyer , he had yelled and screamed at her, hitting her across the face more than once until she had tumbled down, crawling into the corner. He said she had muttered Erik's name in her sleep. When she had fallen to the floor, he grabbed her by the hair, pulling her up and throwing her against the wall, screaming into her face, "Where is your Angel of Music now?"

She had asked herself the same question for years, now. Where was her Angel? Where was her Erik?

She was asking it now as she huddled, hidden from Raoul and his drunken rant, crying and clutching at the crusifix that hung around her neck. She held her breath as she heard him stumbling down the hall, shouting for her, telling her he would kill her when he found her. After a minute, she heard a soft thump and a groan. Pressing her ear to the door, she heard nothing. Still, she didn't move. After what seemed like forever, she heard a door at the end of the hall open and a voice call, "Raoul?"

Footsteps came downt the hall and there was the sound of something being moved and a gasp before the footsteps hurriedly scuttled from where they were. There was a pause before a woman's voice called her name.

"I know you're around here somewhere," the voice called. "Come out. I only want to help you."

Knowing the woman would not relent, she opened the door to see Raoul's mistress slowly walking down the hall away from her. Hearing the door open, the other woman turned. She was holding a suitcase.

"If you want to run," she said quietly, "now is the time. I won't tell him where you have gone. He won't be up for several more hours, at least. I'm going to pack my own things and leave. I never knew he was like this."

"You've seen me, Emeline. What did you expect?" The Madame de Chagny smiled bitterly and held out her arms. "I weigh ninty pounds. I'm covered in bruises. I sleep in a closet. Did you think he was a dear? A kind, sweet man?" She laughed darkly. "No. This is not the Raoul I married. You're right to leave. You have a home to go to. But if there was somewhere I could go, don't you think I would have walked out years ago?"

Emeline did not speak for a moment. The two women stared each other down for another minutes before Emeline set down the suitcase. Straightening, she stared at the tiny woman. "I promise you," she said softly, "that if necessary, I will attest to his fault in your death if it comes to it."

She could expect nothing more, but she had always expected so much less of these women Raoul relied on for pleasure. No one had offered this. As morbid as it was, it was nevertheless a promise of justice. "Thank you."

Emeline nodded and walked back down the hall. She reached the bedroom door and paused. Turning, she said, "You could come with me."

The Madame shook her head. "Thank you," she said again. "I appreciate the offer, but you are, nevertheless, part of my husband's life. If I leave, I want to be free of him forever."

The mistress nodded. She entered Raoul's room, emerging several minutes later with a suitcase and wrapped in a coat. As she passed by, Emeline squeezed her hand. "Be careful."

She was gone, then, leaving the emaciated woman alone in the hallway with her passed out husband and a packed suitcase. Raoul stirred breifly on the floor before growing quiet again. His wife stared down at him for a long time before she made up her mind.

Walking down the hall, she entered Raoul's bedroom. Sitting at his desk, she carefully wrote a breif note before pulling out the gun that was hidden in the bottom drawer.

At daybreak, the house was awoken by the scream of a maid. Other servants rushed into the hall to see what the commotion was. For a moment, no one moved. Then someone moved to run out the door into the streets of Paris, screaming for the gendarmerie.

No questions were asked as to why what happened had occurred as it did. The maid of the Madame de Chagny told the officers that her mistress had been very thin and miserable with the beatings administered by her brute of a husband. It had only been a matter of time until this had happened.

The newspapers would say that Viscount Raoul de Chagny had been murdered in his home. There were no suspects. The whereabouts of his wife, Christine, were a unknown, but it was not believed that she was a suspect.

His family was told that Raoul had been driven mad when Christine had disappeared one night. Unable to find her, he had put the barrel of a gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

When the news reached Scotland that the French noble had shot himself after the disappearance of his wife, Baron McLeod read the news with a small level of surprise but feeling no remorse for the man who had stolen Christine from him. Putting the letter from France aside, he slid down under the covers, feeling the arms of his newest blonde mistress wrap around his waist as she whispered into his ear pleas for pleasure.


	2. Chapter 1

**CHAPTER 1**

"Please, I need this job! I havn't any money, and I—"

"You should have thought of that before you came to a country you can hardly communicate in. I'm sorry, but my customers need to speak to someone who knows good English. Come back when you can talk."

The door of the shop shut in her face and Christine found herself back in the streets for the fifth time that day. Looking around, she shifted her suitcase from one hand to the other. The truth was that she hadn't thought before she left. She'd hardly thought before putting the gun in Raoul's hand and wrapped his finger around the trigger, helping him squeeze it. She hadn't thought as she'd numbly picked up the suitcase the woman had left for her and stepped outside, walking down the street until a kindly cabbie picked her up, taking her to the train station. Some of the little bit of money she had had gone to a train ticket, then to a ferry ticket. She'd wound up in the bustling city of London with hardly any money and checked herself into a grungy boarding house where she had cried herself to sleep for two weeks before going outside to look for a job.

She'd had little luck. Her English was still very bad. She was getting a bit better, but she knew it wasn't what she needed to find work. She was running out of time. The rent was due soon, and she had no more money and no job.

Not watching where she was going, Christine tripped over a rough bit of the street. Her suitcase fell from her hand and her few belongings tumbled out into the dirt. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she tried to hurriedly shove everything inside. A woman appeared and knelt down to help her, smiling as she handed Christine a pair of gloves that had fallen out.

"These are real nice," she said brightly. "What're ya doin' out here all by yourself?"

Christine looked up at the woman. "My husband died," she said bluntly. "I have to find a job."

The woman raised her eyes. "You're a Frenchie?"

Christine frowned, not understanding.

"You're from France."

Oh. "Yes," Christine said, snapping the suitcase shut again. "Thank you." She began to walk away, but the woman followed.

"Did you have any luck in the shop there?"

Christine shook her head. "I have difficulty speaking here," she said glumly. "No one will hire me and I will be thrown out on the streets soon."

The girl smiled. "You can find a job, ya know. We're looking for another girl. You could come work with us. No one cares how you speak."

For the first time, Christine really looked at this woman. She was scantily dressed and had very heavy make-up caked on her face. She was nearly falling out of the top of her dress, a fact she did not seem in any hurry to hide or correct. Christine had seen women like this one in Paris. She was a street woman—a whore.

Christine shook her head, taking an unconcsious step back. "I could never—" She stepped back again. "I am a lady of class," she said indignantly.

The prostitute's eyes raked over Christine's faded dress and laughed. "Yet you can't pay the rent." She turned haughtily and hoisted her chin in the air. "Well, I'm off to work. Making money. Paying rent." She laughed again and Christine watched her for a minute before turning and heading back to the boarding house.

It was nearly dark when she arrived back and climbed up the dingy staircase. There was a note on her door from her landlady stating that Christine had two weeks to come up with her rent or she would be out on the street. Sighing, Christine took the note and walked into her room. She set down her case and reached into a cabinet, pulling out a bottle of cheap rum she kept for days like this. Pouring a bit, she sat down on the old, creaky bed and drank in silence. She had been sitting for some time when there was a knock on her door. Opening it, Christine was unsurprised to find her landlady.

"You haff visitor," the woman said in her thick accent. "She's waiting downstairs. Job today?"

Christine shook her head and stepped past the old woman, who shouted after her, "Two weeks, girl! Then I find tennant who pays!"

Christine muttered under her breath as she walked down the steps and into the parlor. She was greeted by the sight of a middle-aged woman wearing a deep red dress and holding an umbrella. She rose as Chrisitne entered and, unsmiling, extended a hand. Her eyes raked over Christine who felt as if she were being examined.

"Can I help you?" she asked.

"I heard your landlady," the woman said. "Sounds like I can help you." She sat down, gesturing for Christine to sit across from her. "I heard you talking to Anne today."

Christine frowned. "Anne?"

"Anne," the woman repeated, looking at Chrisitne as if she were stupid. "That scrawny whore of a woman. She said she was looking for a new girl and you thought you were too high class." She smirked. "What made you think that?"

Christine stood up, suddenly on the defensive. "Who are you?"

The woman sat back a bit in her seat. "My name is Adelia Lewis. I run Jezebel's. I'm sure you've never heard of it." She laughed. "I'm here to offer you a job."

Chrisitne didn't like the sound of that, even though she needed a job. She shook her head. "I'm no whore," she said firmly.

"My girls aren't whores, per say," Adelia said. She folded her hands primly in her lap, sitting up and looking every bit the socialite. "They are escorts for the rich men of London who simply want the pleasure of female company for the evening without the degradation of hiring those street crawlers." She made a disgusted face. "Walk."

Christine frowned, this time with confusion. "Pardon me?"

"Walk, girl, from there to the door and back." Christine did as she was told. "Now sit." She sat. "Fold your hands." This, too, Christine did. Adelia smiled, aparantly pleased. "You are a lady of class. Where are you from?"

"Paris." Christine bowed her head. "I left several months ago. My husband shot himself."

Adelia's eyebrows raised. "What's your name?"

"Christine."

"Chagny." Adelia smirked at Christine's surprised look. "Oh, darling, everyone heard about that. You have baggage. I change my mind. I don't like girls with baggage. Just girls with beauty, poise, and a desire to please."

She turned to leave, but Christine jumped to her feet. "Wait!"

"I thought you were too good to be a whore."

Chrisitne bowed her head, resigning herself to her fate. "I want to know more."

"You mean you want a job."

Ashamed, Christine nodded. "No one will hire me. My English is not very good."

"That hardly matters with these men. Many of them understand enough French that if you forget what you're saying, they'll understand. And there will be times when you won't need to speak at all." Adelia folded her arms. "The pay's fifty pounds per gentleman to start. The longer you stay, the more you'll make."

Christine's eyes widened. "That's enough to pay a whole month here!"

"You wouldn't live here," she said. "You'd live in the house with the other girls."

"Like a brothel."

"But classy."

Christine was silent for a minute before she said, "When can I start?"

\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\

Erik McLeod sipped his whisky as he stood on the ridge overlooking the shore of the North Sea. Behind him, a massive house, one made of stone and sweat, rose up from the green and towered over everything around it, but it was one that held nothing of interest to its owner. Erik had not returned to Scotland for so many years that he had nearly forgotten how beautiful it was, but when he had been forced to leave Paris nearly six years ago, he had come here, to the house left to him in his father's will to claim his title. Now, he was known as a respectable architect and somewhat of a rogue bachelor. Currently, he had two mistresses, neither of which held much interest to him other than sex.

At the moment, Sibyl of the blonde hair and generous bosom was waiting for him inside, and he was in no rush to return to her at the moment. Lately, she had been exhibiting qualities he found undesirable in a woman—she seemed to expect a marriage proposal. He had always been firm about what they were, so he had no idea where this had come from.

Throwing back the last of his whisky, Erik turned to walk back inside. He sighed as he walked up the sloping lawn toward the mannor. He was silent, but just before he entered, he threw the crystal glass at the side of the house. It shattered like his life had so long ago into a million little pieces—each one beautiful, but as a whole, a small disaster. As soon as he walked in the door, a high pitched voice called out, "Erik, darling, is that you?"

Before he could answer, Sibyl had descended the staircase and was standing in front of him, peering up into his face. "Where have you been? I've been waiting upstairs."

"I went for a walk." As much as he knew he needed to talk to her, Erik felt the desire to take her upstairs and make sure it was worth it to send her packing. Something—someone—was nagging at the back of his mind, and he wanted to get rid of the arousal that was beginning to bother him. Wrapping his arms around Sibyl's waist, he said, "I'm sorry I kept you waiting. Can I make it up to you?"

"I sent the servants on errands and outside for the afternoon for 'fresh air.'" She smirked as she grabbed his belt buckle, pulling him closer. "You have all afternoon to make it up to me. Loudly."

He moaned as her hand drifted lower, cupping him through his trousers. "I will endevor to please you, my lady," he said, "as I'm sure you will do for me."

Later, however, Erik found himself alone in his bed. Sibyl had been performing wonderfully, but he had let slip the one word known to drive women from his bed and house.

Her head had been thrown back as she had rocked back and forth on top of him. His hands traced up her back and he moaned as he released, calling out for Christine. He hadn't even realized that he had done it until Sibyl froze, asking, "Who is Chrisine?"

Before giving him the chance to answer, she drew away from him, crossing his room and dressing hastily. She didn't speak, but anger was rolling off of her in waves. Erik made no move to stop her. He did not appologize. He merely lay in bed trying to understand why Christine de Chagny's image still haunted him after nearly six years. So absorbed in his thoughts, Erik didn't even realize Sibyl was gone until almost an hour later. She had packed everything she had here and left, probably back home to Edinburgh.

Sighing, Erik climbed out of bed and dressed. It wasn't late—the sun was just beginning to set. He was hungry, and stepped out of his bedroom and walked down to the dining room in silence. His maid had set out his usual bottle of red wine and upon hearing him enter, she quickly poured him a glass.

"Miss Sibyl will not be joining you tonight, my lord?" she asked softly.

"No, Miss Sibyl will not be joining me tonight." Erik lifted the wine to his lips and drained down the entire glass, more upset that he had called out Christine's name than that Sibyl had left. The girl poured him another before making way for the cook, who came out with Erik's dinner for the night. He ate in silence, the wine mixing in with the food until both were gone and he was a bit drunk. Still, not as drunk as he would have liked.

"Abby!" The little maid scurried back in. "Bring me a brandy."

"Yes, sir." She left and returned quickly, pouring a bit into the snifter, but leaving the bottle. Erik was vaguely ammused that she knew him well enough at this point to know when to leave the Cognac and when to only pour him one.

Two hours later, Erik was being helped upstairs by Abby and George, his valet, muttering all the way about how vile women were and how they drove even their loving husbands to madness and suicide. Abby nodded and said, "Yes, sir, that's true," all the way upstairs, keeping him happy and away from her posterior. Upstairs, George helped Erik out of his clothes and into pants better suited for sleep. The pair got him into bed and turned down the lights, shutting the door and retreating to their own rooms.

Erik lay in bed for a long time before the tears came. He had known they would come—the alcohol did nothing to stop them. He cried for himself and for the lost years he would never get back. He cried for Christine, wondering what had become of her since she had left her home.

He fell asleep, still crying, his mind wrapped around the image of the last time he had seen Christine, looking back at him even as she clung to her boy. Maybe... maybe there was hope...

_a/n I'm thinking my other story is just about done and I need something to keep me busy so that I keep my mind off men (I'm going to try to stay single for a while for a change). I'm not sure where I'm going with this one, but I suppose we'll see. Let me know what you think. Thanks! —G_


	3. Chapter 2

_a/n I noticed that there's a story with a very similar summary to mine that was started before this, but I glanced at it and it's totally different. So don't worry, if you see something that looks similar to this—I can assure you, they're totally different._

_Now, due to inclement weather, on with the show! This is a new type of M rating for me—I'm sure there'll be romantic sex later on, but this chapter may offend some. Proceed with caution._

**CHAPTER 2**

Looking in the mirror, Christine took a deep, shaky breath and let it out in a rush. Tonight was her first night on the job, and she was terrified. Despite the fact that she had been told she would not be a whore, she had been told by some of the girls in the house that sex would more than likely be expected of her. She was becoming even more nervous when one of the girls, Tessa, came in and sat down on the bed.

Tessa was a vision of beauty and Christine wondered why she'd never settled down and married—she had to be in her mid thirties, at least. Still, her face showed almost no age lines and her eyes were bright and shrewd. Tonight, she was dressed in a blue evening gown, ready to go to work. She glanced over Christine, nodding her approval.

"You know you don't have to worry," she said, standing to help Christine finish dressing. "Adelia won't give you some dirty old man on your first job. She likes to keep her girls around." Grunting a bit as she tightened Christine's corset, Tessa continued. "I heard her talking to a younger man who came in this morning, wanting an escort to the opera. Adelia said she had a new girl who's right up his alley. In any case—" She paused while she tied Christine in. "In any case, I've had him before. He's not so bad. Pretty sure he's a fairy."

Christine frowned. "A what?"

"A fairy. Unholy." Tessa laughed. "Homosexual. No real interest in women. Seems like he's just putting up a front. Never settles down—only hires the girls."

"Maybe he just like the fantasy," Christine said softly.

"Either way, he's perfect for you. A gentleman. He'll still want sex, though."

As much as Tessa seemed to be trying to comfort her, she was also making Christine even more nervous. There was no more time for talk, though. The door opened and Adelia entered. She looked over Christine before grabbing her by the wrist, pulling her toward the door.

"Now, I don't want you to make an ass out of yourself," Adelia said brashly. "Just act like you know what you're doing. Don't speak unless you're spoken to and watch your mouth. Don't get too involved in any conversation. Your job's not to talk, it's to stand around and look pretty." Stopping at the parlor door, Adelia gave Christine one last inspection. "And don't expect to get off too easy. Likely he'll want a fuck before the night's over. And no crying. Adelia's girls don't cry."

Christine nodded, steeling herself as Adelia opened the door, standing to the side for Christine to enter the room.

Sitting in a chair across the room was a young man, not much older than herself, dressed in a fine evening suit with his blonde hair slicked back. He rose when Christine entered, and she curtsied as she had been taught to, not rising back up until she felt a hand under her chin drawing her up. The man was smiling at her, and he offered his arm. She took it and, silently, the pair of them exited the room and went out the front door into the streets of London. A fine carriage waited outside and he helped Christine in before climbing in after her.

"How are you this fine evening?" he asked.

Christine smiled, nodding politely. "Very well, thank you."

The man's eyebrows raised. "Are you French?"

Christine nodded, feeling her stomach turn over. "Is that bad?"

He laughed. "No, not at all. I like the French ones better. Not quite as dirty." He took her hand in his own, pressing his lips to her fingers. "What is your name, my little French maid?"

"My name is Claire," she said automatically. None of the girls used their real names when on the job. "Claire Dawson." She bowed her head. "And who might you be, sir?"

"Lord Andrew Pierce," he said grandly. "At your service, my little maid."

"And I, at yours," she said, adding a sultry tone to her voice, one that she hated. She felt cheap, and yet she was quite expensive. She was fifty pounds for the night, although she herself would only take fifteen of that. She had to work for any bit of extra he might throw her ways. Adelia had neglected to mention a great deal in the parlor that day. Christine would only take two or three gentlemen a week—she had to appear rested, and could not be seen out _too_ often. She had to pay for her own clothes. Any luxuries were paid by for her, as well. All of it was expensive, and thirty pounds would likely not cover it. The thirty-five taken from her nightly wage went to maintenance, food, and Adelia's own comfort. If Christine wanted a tip, she'd have to call on her skills as an actress.

The ride to the opera house was longer than Christine liked, but it was worth it when they arrived. She felt a rush she could only explain as missing the opera so much. She hadn't seen an opera since she had first been married. Tonight, a poster advertised _Carmen_ by Bizet. Christine was excited—she had heard of this, but Raoul had refused to take her to see it. It sounded a bit risqué and Christine hoped it would help her to forget herself.

Several hours later, the opera was done. Carmen had been killed and Jose had confessed. Christine was holding a glass of champagne as Andrew talked business with several men that had been in attendance as well. She had been introduced simply as Claire, then ignored as the men talked animatedly. A woman who was accompanying one of the gentlemen offered her a cigarette, which she declined. The woman, who was vaguely familiar to her, leaned close to Christine's ear, pressing the cigarette and the long holder most women seemed to use with it into her gloved hand, whispering, "He'll tip you if you smoke. He thinks it's attractive."

Christine's brow crinkled as the woman lit the cigarette for her, mouthing, "Don't inhale."

As Christine worked not to inhale while still looking attractive, she noticed that Andrew was glancing at her more often. When he turned to look at her, she fixed a coy smile on her lips. Andrew took her hand, not looking away from her face as he told the men he would be in contact. Out of the corner of her eye, Christine saw the other woman wink, and in a flash she knew who she was.

There was a girl in Adelia's house who had struck her as familiar from the first time she had seen her. She wore a great deal of make up and was thinner than she remembered. Still, Christine would never forget Michelle. She had been one of the older ballerinas at the opera house. Christine had not seen her since the fire.

Back in Andrew's carriage, Christine had no more time to think about Michelle. She could always talk to her later, but now was the time to sing for her salt. Taking a deep breath, Christine leaned over, pressing her lips against Andrew's. He kissed her back, moving his hands along her back and pulling her a bit closer. He pulled away after a minute or two to stare at her face. A small smile crossed his face. "You're certainly eager," he said. "I like that. You're a lovely woman, Claire."

She smiled at his sincerity in calling her lovely. "Only a lovely woman could be seen with a man as handsome as you."

The carriage jerked to a halt and Christine peered out. They were not back to Adelia's house. They were in front of a mansion, a large one—it had to be Andrew's. He led her out of the carriage and into the house. She fell into herself as he led her to a bedroom, seeking out that part of her that she had come to know so well when Raoul had raped her. She felt her dress falling off, followed by her petticoat and pantalets. Her corset was still on when she felt her back against the soft bed. A knee jammed between her legs and she let them fall apart. The bed shifted as he removed his clothes before lying back on top of her, forcing himself inside her.

_Little Lotte was running away, running toward the sea, safely into the arms of her father…_

Andrew was thrusting roughly into her over and over, grunting with the effort. Christine forced herself to wrap her arms around him, forced breathy sighs from her mouth. He took pleasure in the sounds coming from her and he worked harder to reach his release. A cry of pain slipped from her mouth, but he seemed to take it for one of pleasure and moaned loudly as he thrust. Suddenly, he pulled out of her. Christine knew he had not released, and she was beginning to wonder if he was going to cast her aside when she felt herself being pushed onto her stomach, then pulled up onto her hands and knees.

_Little Lotte thought of everything and nothing…_

_She danced on her tiptoes for her father, who dangled a bag of taffy over her head, laughing as she hopped up and down. He finally relented and gave her the bag, scooping her up in his arms and kissing her on the cheek… _

She was a _whore_. No mater what Adelia said, Christine was a whore. She was not making love—she was being meaninglessly fucked by a man who would toss her a hefty sum of cash at the end of the night. All she was was a body—one that seemed so willing, but one that was crying out for this torture to end. She couldn't cry—if Andrew told Adelia that she had cried, she could be cast out. She choked down the tears and forced more pleasured sounds from her mouth.

_Arms held her tight as she leaned against the hard chest of the man she had only laid eyes on for the first time just a few minutes ago. She felt unfamiliar feelings rushing through her. A heat settled between her legs and she knew that if he took her farther, to that place of which she had heard whispers, she would be powerless to stop him…_

It was over soon. She felt him tense up behind her, not feeling the release as it was caught by the wrapping over his manhood—finally, something to be thankful for. He withdrew from her, collapsing on the bed beside her. Not sure what she was supposed to do, Christine lay down on her stomach until he caught his breath. When he stood and began to dress, so did she. She did not look at him as she rearranged herself.

"The carriage is downstairs," he said. "You can show yourself out." He made to leave, but paused behind her, brushing his lips over her still bare shoulder. "I had a lovely time, Claire."

She did not have to answer, thankfully. He was gone before she had time to catch her breath. Glancing back at the bed, she saw a pile of money. She snatched it up, not bothering to count it as she fled the house.

In a matter of minutes, she was back at the house—the brothel. She was a whore. A _whore_. Slut.

She counted out thirty five pounds and gave it to Adelia, who was waiting by the door. Walking up the stairs, Christine counted the money she still held. There was her fifteen plus an extra twenty. Entering her room, she threw herself on the bed, sobbing.

It seemed an eternity before there was a knock on the door. Christine did not move to open it, but it opened anyway. Someone entered and she heard the bathroom door open. There was the sound of water being dumped into the tub and a small rustle of movement before a hand rested on her back. Looking up, Christine's eyes met Michelle's. No words were spoken as Michelle helped Christine to undress. Tears still ran down her face as Michelle helped her into the bath, gently scrubbing her back and washing her hair. Christine came to and snatched the washrag from Michelle, reaching down between her legs and scrubbing frantically. Michelle made no move to stop her, only stroked Christine's wet hair, murmuring meaningless words of comfort as Christine drew her knees to her chest and sobbed.

The water was cold before Christine climbed out. Michelle wrapped her in a towel and helped her back into the bedroom, then into a clean cotton nightgown. She tucked her in, pressing a kiss against her forehead, whispering, "It'll get easier with time. I'm upstairs if you need me."

Christine nodded as Michelle crossed to the door, turning down the lamp and closing the door. Christine did not stop crying until after she was asleep.

* * *

Erik was tired. The damned carriage driver had gotten lost on the way to the hotel, and now he was going to have hardly any time to sleep before having to wake up and go to a meeting. Annoyed, he had gone for a prostitute, having only to walk fifty feet or so before one solicited him. In a dark alleyway, he had pushed up her skirts and dropped his pants before relieving himself. He had shoved some money into her hands before composing himself and going back to the hotel.

Now, it was two in the morning and he could not sleep. He couldn't remember a time he had ever been this low. His professional life was certainly at an all time high, but he had never drank so much and spent so much on whores in his life. Madame Giry would certainly beat him to a pulp if she saw what he had become. He wasn't himself in any way. All because of her…

No. He could not make excuses. He had allowed himself to slip, to become this piece of shit that kept spare women around the house, paying different ones when he was away on business. It wasn't what he wanted—he wanted a wife. He wanted Christine.

A part of his heart ached tonight, a part he had thought had long since died. He sipped whisky as he sat at the window of his room, looking out at the empty street below. A carriage stopped across the street and a woman rushed out and into the building across from the hotel. He could not see her at all—she was concealed by a hooded cloak—but he could see what she was as she handed money to a woman inside the door. It was the third time tonight he had seen this exchange. It looked to be a whore house, but one with class. The women he had seen had been very well dressed.

Behind him, the door opened as George let himself in. Erik turned, gesturing to the house. "What is that across the street?" he asked.

"Escort service," George said shortly. "Not your style, if I may say so, sir."

Erik grunted, suppressing a laugh. George had been his valet since he had moved into the house in Scotland, and he seemed unafraid of Erik, something he was not used to and something he greatly enjoyed. George was probably right again, this time. Erik was not one for an escort—he liked his women to stick around for a while before sending them packing. Still, the idea amused him a bit. Maybe he would pay the house a visit while he was in town…

_a/n Woot! I did this in one sitting because I'm sooooo bored! If anyone's reading my other story, I'll update it soon—I have to get the file off my computer, but it's at school (I'm on spring break, sitting on my ass like a loser because I can't afford to go camping). Soon, though, I promise._

_Leave reviews. They make the updates come faster._


	4. Chapter 3

_a/n Glad to see the last chapter was appreciated. To answer a quick question—no, Christine did not cry when she shot Raoul. She cried last chapter because she felt total degredation and incredibally dirty. She didn't cry after Raoul because that was a choice that she wanted, if that makes any sense._

_Ok. On with the show! The bit with Christine works really well if you're listening to "The Movie in My Mind," from _Miss Saigon_, just so ya know..._

**CHAPTER 3**

Jezebel's had been busy all day. Ususally, men only came in the evenings, but there was some bit event—some horse race—that had kept men wanting company. As a result, Christine was alone in her room, reading a book and trying to keep busy until she needed to get ready for the evening. This evening marked the end of her second week at Jezebel's and her fifth customer. She had stopped crying, now, but she still took a bath every night, scrubbing herself from head to toe until she was pink.

Bored with her book, Christine marked her page and went upstairs to visit Michelle. When she arrived, she was surprised to find Michelle dressing to go to work. Sitting on the bed, Christine folded her hands in her lap and watched as Michelle flitted around the room, seeming flustered about something.

"What's wrong, Michelle?" she asked.

Michelle glanced over, looking at Christine for a moment before turning around, gesturing for Christine to tie her corset. "Tight," she said, leaning forward and sucking in her belly. "Nothing's wrong. I just wasn't planning on working today, and apparently it's a rich client."

"They're all rich," Christine said bitterly.

"I know." Michelle began to pin up her hair. "This one, though..." She shook up her head. "Big spender," she said simply.

Christine's eyes got wide. "How much?"

"He's paying her for the whole night."

Christine had been munching peanuts that rested next to the bed and had to work not to choke. The girls of Jezebel's were expensive to begin with, but for the whole night they were double, plus tip. Men could seldom afford it. When they could, the girls didn't really have to work for the rest of the week—they could afford to lay around and be pampered. Michelle, though, wanted out and was saving her money. She had told Christine so—she wanted to make enough to get a nice flat and enough to start work in a ladies shop in the nicer part of London.

While Christine had been mulling over what life at Jezebel's would be like without Michelle, the other woman had managed to get her hair up into a refined style and was putting the finishing touches on her face. Reaching down into her corset, Michelle pulled her breasts up to where they were nearly falling out. Frowning, she asked, "How do I look?"

Christine forced a smile. "Would you like me to say lovely?"

"No." Michelle turned away from the mirror and reached foshoes. "I don't want to look lovely for some useless man." Pulling on her shoes, she made an ugly face. "I want to look like his classy whore—the one that everyone knows he spent the big money on."

Christine sighed. "It won't be long," she said reassuringly. "You'll get out of here long before me."

"And when you get out you'll come take over for me for when I marry some perfect man and move off to the country and have dozens of babies." Michelle took one last look in the mirror. "I'm off," she said. "Where are you going tonight?"

"Back off with Andrew," she said.

Michelle grinned. "Ah, your first. Back for more?"

"So it seems." Christine sighed. "Are they all like this?"

"Of course, darling. They don't want whores. They want mistresses. That's what people think we are. That's why _she_ never class us whores."

"But we are."

"Yes," Michelle said softly. "We are." She brushed a hand across Christine's cheek. "I have to go. Remember to think happy thoughts, laugh at his jokes, fake an orgasm, all that."

"As always." Christine smiled, taking Michelle's hand and kissing her fingers. "Thank you," she whispered.

Michelle frowned. "For what?"

"For being a friend." She tightened her fingers around Michelle's. "For not forgetting me. For not blaming me."

Michelle smiled kindly, sitting down next to Christine. "I will always be your friend," she said softly. "I could never forget you—you put me out of a job when you made that man burn down the opera house." She winked, then turned serious. "And I will never blame you for what your husband did to you."

Christine embraced her, holding her for a moment before Michelle stood, telling her she would come see her when she got back, and then she was gone.

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Michelle was ready for anything—a young gambler, some old man who could hardly keep it up, anything. Pausing outside the parlor, she checked herself in the mirror. She never put so much work into her look, but this man could be her ticket out. As she made to move inside, Adelia caught her by the elbow, shaking her head.

"No need," she said. "He's staying at the hotel across the street." She handede Michelle a slip of paper with a room number and sent her on her way.

Michelle looked outside at the hotel. She often sat and watched people coming and going, and they always looked rich. Her heart sped up a bit as she walked out into the street, crossing to the elaborate building on the other side of the street. Reaching the front entrance, a doorman opened the door for her and she entered. At the front desk, a man sat writing in an account book. He looked up when Michelle entered.

"May I help you, miss?" he asked cordially.

"Yes," she said. "I would like to know where room 702 is. I'm visiting a friend."

The man's eyes widened. "Ah!" He scrambled up, waving frantically. "Follow me." As he lead her across to an elevator, she realized esactly how expensive this hotel must be. She followed him into the lift, standing quietly as it ascended. When it reached the seventh floor, she stepped off, and the man gestured to a single door next to the lift. Before she could ask him where the rest of the doors were, the lift had shut and the man was gone.

Glancing down the hall, she saw one other door at the other end. It was slightly unnerving, but she needed the money so she knocked. A moment later a you later it opened, revealing a man in his mid thirties wearing dress slacks and a crisp white shirt. He held the door open, calling out, "I'll be in town, then, sir."

There was no answer, but the man did not seem to expect one, and he left, shutting the door behind him.

Michelle stood awkwardly for a moment before shaking her head and stepping away from the door. Looking around, she quickly saw why there were only two doors on this floor. The room was more like an apartment and took up the entire side of the floor. She set down the small bag she had brought with her, containing a bit of makeup and more clothes, before calling out, "Hello?"

She was beginning to become a bit unnvered at the dimly lit space and it seeming lack of man, but she walked in a bit further, looking around. Lying on the desk was what looked to be a building plan. There were almost no erase marks, as if it were being copied. A violin rested on the other end of the table and Michelle ran her fingers across it briefly, missing the days when music filled her job instead of shouted orders and mens voices. Pulling her hand back, she looked around for any trace of a person living and saw nothing.

"You must be Marie."

Michelle jumped slightly, seeing no one, but quickly hid her nervousness. "Yes, I am," she said. She put a coy smile on her lips and walked slowly toward the bed. "Is this a game? Am I supposed to find you, monsieur?" She bent over in a most un-ladylike fashion to look under the bed and a moment later felt herself being pulled up and back. "Oh, have I lost the game, monsieur?"

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, something drifted across her vision and in front of her eyes. A moment later, she could see nothing—she was blindfolded. His hands left the back of her head and trailed down her arms, then around her waist and back up to her breasts.

"Yes you have," he said softly. Her eyes drifted shut—his voice was deep, and she could feel his chest rumble against her back when he spoke. He turned her around, tilting her chin up and kissing her so deeply she felt her knees go weak. She moaned into his mouth as he lifted her up off the floor and onto the comfortable bed. He pulled away suddenly, and she lay motionless for nearly a minute before she felt his hands on her again. Gently, he rolled her onto her front. His hands undid the buttons at the back of her dress and pulled it down. As he moved up to her back again, he ran his hands under her petticoat up to her round backside, cupping it brifly before pulling down her undergarments and petticoat. A moment later her corset followed and she was totally nude. She felt vulnerable—most men were content to leave women topless, merely shoving skirts aside while they lived their fantasies.

He took her hands, wrapping them around his shoulders, and pulling her close—he was naked. Michelle relaxed a bit, glad she was not alone in her complete lack of clothing. She couldn't see a thing as he placed gentle kisses on her neck. She arched her back, feeling truly aroused without having to think of something—someone—else for the first time in years. His lips moved to her breast, capturing it in his mouth. Tangling her hands in his hair, Michelle moaned. She wished—_wished—_she could see him as he moved lower, his lips brushing over her belly on his way between her thighs. Nearly in tears, Michelle allowed him to bring her to her first non-self induced release since being on the job.

When he took her, his lips were pressed against hers and he thrust into her in such a way that it wasn't long before she released again. When he had finished, he kissed her gently before pulling away. He rose from the bed and when he did not return after several minutes, Michelle removed the blindfold. He was no where to be seen.

Glancing around, she smiled at the mess they had made. The blankets were tossed everywhere. Her legs were tangled in the sheets, which were barely hanging onto the bed. She felt sexual for the first time in a long time. It was going to be an interesting night.

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For some odd reason Andrew had requested that she not be too formally dressed. She wasn't sure why, but Christine did not ask questions. She knew, when the carriage went directly to his house, what the main item on the agenda was this evening. They dined—roast lamb and greens. It was simple, but elegant. She saw right through it, saw his attempts to make her like him. She pretended that she was attracted to him, that she wanted him. When the table had been cleared, he took her into the library and served her wine. She drank deeply, hoping she'd become numb. She didn't.

She let her thought wander as he took the glass from her hands and pulled her to her feet. His hands wandered over her and she let them. When he undressed her, she made no move to stop him. Gently, but still reminding her wordlessly who was in charge, he shoved her down to her knees. She took him in her mouth, she pretended to be enjoying herself. She sucked and licked until he released, then allowed him to carry her upstairs to the bedroom. When he took her, she sunk into herself, releasing fake moans and cries of pleassure as she thought of someone else...

_Warm hands ran up her abdomen and dragged across her breasts as he held her from behind. His fingers tangled into her hair. In her dreams, he always took her on that stage, and tonight was no different. She pulled his clothes from him as her dress seemed to melt off of her body. The crowd below them did not matter, nor did the presence of Raoul. He pressed her up against the railing of the bridge and slid into her with ease, heedless of everything but her. She moaned, her back arching as she cried out to God for him to take her harder. The friction of him moving in and out of her the way he was was almost too much, and she felt herself begin to shake..._

"_Erik!"_

He was done. Pulling out of her, he collapsed next to her on the bed. He reached over, pulling her against her side and she pretended to happily snuggle up close. She tried not to pull away as he placed tender kisses on her neck. After several minutes of rather one-sided cuddling, Andrew pulled away, climbing from the bed. Naked, he crossed the room to his desk, pulled out an envelope, and tossed it onto the bed. He retrieved into the closet and Christine opened the envelope. Inside was her fifty plus another forty, and a small piece of paper with Adelia's name on it. Closing the envelope, she leaned off the edge of the bed.

"Will you be needing anything else?" she called into the closet.

"No," he called back. "You're free to leave."

Back in the library, Christine retrieved her clothes. Dressing quickly, she let herself out the front door and stepped into the waiting carriage. She wondered vaguely how the man always knew when to bring around the carriage. Andrew made such odd noises, she thought to herself with a small giggle, that perhaps they carried downstairs.

Back at the house, Christine handed Adelia the money she was owed plus an extra five. Adelia raised her eyebrows, and Christine said simply, "I want new curtains."

Adelia laughed and smacked Christine's bottom, sending her back upstairs. She was almost at the top when she heard her name being called. Adelia was standing at the bottom of the stairs, holding the note from Andrew.

"Come down here and sit, girl."

Christine followed her boss into the parlor and sat down, looking about a bit nervously. "Am I in trouble?" she asked.

"Oh, no, dear," Adelia said, her lips curling. "I merely wanted to let you know that he said he's been quite satisfied in the past and would like to have you available every Thursday evening. I think he's taken quite a fancy to you."

Christine rolled her eyes. "I'm sure."

"Oh, no, dear, you're quite the little actress from what I hear." Adelia smirked. "Sounds like you actually seem to be enjoying yourself."

Christine put on the fakest sincere smile she could, saying, "Oh, Adelia, I _do_ enjoy men. I enjoy laughing about them and the ridiculous sounds they make when I get home."

Adelia laughed outright. "Get upstairs," she said. "And get to sleep."

Later, as Christine lay in bed, she wondered what Michelle was doing, wishing she were here to talk to about the things she thought about when she was with a man...

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Erik glanced around the corner at the girl that had been sent to him. He knew he would have to come out sooner or later, but he had no desire to. Whores were whores, but this girl who called herself Marie didn't fool him for a minue.

Truth be told, Michelle had been one of his favorites, after Christine, of course. She had a fire about her and an attitude. He hadn't thought what would happen to the ballet girls when the opera house burned, but now he could at least guess where some of them had gone.

At the moment, she was examining herself in the mirror. She had changed into a dress more suitable for dining out and she had never looked more the part of a socialite, which was basically what the women of Jezebell's were—paid socialites with benefits. He watched with a small pang as she glanced at the house across the street, heaving a sigh as she looked back in the mirror and pulled her breasts up so that they looked bigger. She hummed softly as she fixed her hair, and he recognized a little Mozart tune that she had probably once danced to.

His mind wandered back to so many years ago at the opera house and he wondered what had become of Christine after her husband's "suicide." Having written a letter to Madame Giry, he had been a bit surprised to find that she had not heard from Christine in some time—her husband had not allowed her to continue a corrispandence with the Girys some time after they had married. All she knew was that the last she had heard from Christine, Raoul had taken to the drink and she was suspicious that he was being less than faithful to her. After that, her letters came back, a stamp on the front saying that Christine was no longer at that address. That had been two years ago.

Now he was no better than her dead husband. He drank until he passed out and paid a number of women to give him sexual pleasure. He cared little for anyone but himself. He was just as bad as Raoul de Chagny, and the thought sickened him. For two years, he had been looking for an escape when he realized that he had gone down the same path as the Viscomte, finding none. Now he had been given a link to his past. Maybe just talking to someone from the old days would help...

Or backfire horribly.

Steeling himself, he stepped around the corner, pulling on his gloves and putting on an air of indifference. Michelle did not notice him right away. She continued messing with her hair for several minutes before he cleared his throat. She did not look at him as she said, "Are you ready for dinner?"

"Yes," he said. Then, to gain her attention, he added, "You look lovely, Michelle."

"Thank you," she said absently. Then she froze. Glancing in the mirror at his reflection, her eyes grew wide and she dropped the pin she was holding. She turned to face him, backing up against the dresser. "What—" She rested a hand over her chest. "What are _you_ doing here?"

He smirked. "I'm here on business. What on earth are _you_ doing at Jezebell's?"

Michelle's mouth worked wordlessly for a moment before she said, "What else was I going to do?"

"Find another ballet?" he asked. "In any case, I suppose I should appologize. It is, after all, my fault that you work where you do. Although," he gave her a once over, not hiding the glance he gave to her torso, "I must say you don't seem to be struggling for money."

"No," she said. "I am, actually. I want out."

Erik raised his eyebrows. "Interesting," he said. "I would have thought a life full of sex would have been your dream come true."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means," he said, "that I saw everything that went on in that house, including the comings and goings of a number of gentlemen not employed by the opera."

Michelle's face flushed. Shaking her head, she changed tacts. "What were you doing at Jezebell's, anyway?"

"The same thing every man does when he goes there," he said. "Looking for company for the evening. Speaking of which..." He pulled out his pocketwatch. "We're going to be late."

"Where are we going?"

"Dinner with clients," he said. "I'm representing my architectural firm." He held out his arm. "Shall we?"

Mirhclle was quiet all through dinner when they had arrived and ordered. She watched, attempting to keep from looking astonished, as Erik, the man who formerly terrorized the opera house, made a deal with a wealthy London man looking to buy very old property in the Scottish highlands. He insisted that it could be restored and lived in, even though the man was doubtful.

"Mr. Johnson," he said, leaning back in his chair and casually draping his arm around Michelle's shoulders, "I'm the best there is to be found in Scotland. If I say I can do it, I can do it, isn't that right darling?"

Michelle smiled as she took a drink of her wine. "It most certainly is."

When the client had gone, Erik rose from the table, pulling Michelle to her feet and smiling at her. "Are you ready to go?"

Michelle nodded, and he gave her his arm and led her from the restaurant. The ride back to the hotel was silent, and Michelle seemed a bit apprehensive as they climbed from the carriage and walked inside. When they arrived upstairs, Erik kissed her deeply, pressing her against the door and trying deperately to find happiness. When he pulled away, Michelle smiled up at him. "You've lost weight."

Erik blinked.

She smiled. "You've been depressed. I can see it in your eyes. They're sad."

He did not reply. Instead, he picked her up in his arms, not remembering a time when she had seemed so tiny, and carried her off to bed...

Hours later, Michelle lay awake in bed, Erik snoring softly next to her. She was more comfortable than she had been in a long time, but she could not sleep. Her thoughts kept going to Christine and what she would think if she saw Michelle now. She could not be sure, but she had suspicions that when Christine was with men, she thought of Erik. She wasn't sure why she thought this, but she did...

Part of her wanted to stay here forever, curled up in this comfortable bed next to a man with enough money to take care of her forever, but part of her wanted to go home to Paris and the man she had left behind. She hadn't thought of him in so long, but now, looking at one part of her past, she was forced to think of another.

In any case, she had to tell one of them, Erik or Christine. If only she knew how. Climbing out of bed, Michelle wrapped a sheet around herself and walked across to the window overlooking the street. A carriage pulled up in front of Jezebell's after several minutes and she peered down to see who was climbing out. She caught a glimpse of chocolate curls before Christine disappeared inside. She breifly wondered how well Christine had done tonight before she felt lips on her shoulder and an arm wrap around her waist. She leaned back a bit into Erik's strong arms and allowed him to lead her back to bed, vowing to worry about her problem in the morning.

_a/n Okay... so, slightly quicker update. I've gotten to the point where I just leave the computer on and type when I get five minutes. Just a warning, though, I've entered that part of the semester where I start to have emotional breakdowns (Dani, if you're reading this you know EXACTLY what I'm talking about!) and have to skip classes while I try to calm down and stop crying for no reason. Hopefully, I'll be able to update a bit more often doing it this way. R/R—it makes me update faster._


	5. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER 4**

Christine was sick of her job. She was sick of men, sick of money, and sick of sex. Most of all, though, she was sick to death of Andrew.

It had been two months since she had been in his employment. She tried to be as optimistic as she could about the time they spent together, but the fact of the matter was that she was his whore. He seemed to think more of her, though. He had introduced her, his Claire, to a number of business men who actually thought her to be a socialite. She had had a scare one night when, alone at dinner, Andrew had bluntly stated that she hadn't always been a prostitute. Shocked, she hadn't answered immediately. She would never forget what he had said next.

"I think you were someone's mistress—some rich man. You look like a dancer. Is that how you met him?"

In some ways, it was terrifying that he was so correct. However, she would have given anything if she could turn back time and simply have been Raoul's mistress. She nodded, though, and answered back, "He was disgustingly rich, but I couldn't stand him." Smirking over the rim of her wine glass, she added, "He wasn't nearly as attractive as you."

He laughed. "So you did this instead."

She forgot herself for a moment. Her eyes slid out of focus, and she said softly, "I suppose."

Ever since that night, she had felt like he was trying to win her over. She wasn't sure why, and she didn't want to bring it up to Michelle who, in addition to being very busy, seemed to have something heavy weighing on her soul.

Tonight, Christine was due to return to Andrew's. She was in the middle of dressing when there was a soft knock on her door.

"Come in!"

The door creaked open, and Michelle entered, wearing a huge smile and holding a _very_ thick wad of money.

"I'm done!" she cried. "I have five hundred pounds! I'm out of this shit hole!"

Christine forced a smile. "I'm not too far behind you," she lied. "I'll be done soon."

Michelle plopped onto the bed. "What do you think you'll do?"

Christine smeared on some rouge. "Audition."

"Audition?" Michelle frowned. "I thought you were finished with the opera."

"Raoul had me finished with the opera," she said darkly. "If I had my way, I'd still be performing. It's what I do—I put on a show." A bitter laugh escaped Christine's lips. "I suppose it's appropriate that that's what I've been doing for the last three months."

Michelle sighed softly. "It won't be long. Just keep up with Andrew—he pays you well. It won't be long if you keep it up."

Christine smiled wryly. "Interesting choice of words."

Shaking her head, Michelle stood, walking behind Christine to wrap her arms around her friend. "I mean it. With the tips he gives you, you'll be gone in no time."

Christine didn't want to tell Michelle that Andrew tipped her well, but that he paid Adelia extra to make sure that "Claire" wasn't seen with anyone else. Andrew was the only person she worked for now. Michelle had been so busy working extra that she hadn't noticed. She was making almost nothing, but Adelia didn't care—_she_ was making a load.

Smiling, Christine leaned up and kissed Michelle's cheek. "I have to get going. I'll be late."

Michelle hugged her again before flouncing out. Christine had to smile—she'd never seen Michelle so happy. Standing, she walked out after Michelle, heading down the stairs and out the front door to the carriage she knew would be waiting for her. Waving to Adelia, she climbed inside, settling herself across from Andrew, who was sitting with crossed legs and a thoughtful look on his face. He gave her a small smile and slid over a bit, gesturing that she was to sit next to him. She moved, settling herself into the space at his side, and he wrapped an arm around her shoulders, kissing her deeply. She kissed him back, not realizing that she was a bit half-hearted about it. He pulled away, frowning a bit. "What's the matter with you tonight?"

She tried to speak, but her throat was suddenly so constricted that she found she could not. She could not help letting out a sob. She clapped her hands over her mouth as she sobbed. No matter how hard she tried, she could not stop crying. Sobs so big they hurt kept coming out, stopping all sound from entering her ears. Vaguely, she felt the carriage jerk to a stop. There was a shift as the driver hopped down and the door opened next to her.

"Please," she gasped. "I'm sorry, I'll stop. Please don't—"

She never had the chance to finish her sentence. She was pulled from the carriage by the driver, who frowned down at her as she hit pavement. Her pleas went unheard and Andrew's carriage pulled away. Forcing herself up, she ran, crying, down the street. When she reached the door of Jezebell's, she wrenched it open. Racing upstairs, she began to pack. She knew what was going to happen as soon as Andrew got around the block. She had seen it happen once before...

"_Adelia, please!"_

"_I'm sorry, Maggie. You know the rules. No crying. You cry, you're out."_

"_Where am I supposed to go? Can't you give me time?"_

"_In the time I give you I could have hired on another girl."_

"_I've been here five years, Adelia—when have I ever cried?"_

"_One time is enough. Once you start you might never stop. Men won't want you anymore. You're done..."_

Her suitcase bulging with clothes, Christine went for her money, heedless of the envelope on her pillow. She had no sooner shoved it into her corset when the door was flung open and Adelia's frowning visage appeared.

"You've packed, I see."

Christine did not speak as she walked past Adelia. In the hallway, she could hear whispers from the other girls as she walked to the stairs. The tears had stopped now, and her face was hard as she walked down the stairs and out the front door. She started to turn around, but the door slammed shut behind her. Stepping off the stoop, Christine looked around, not sure what to do next. Looking up, she stared at the gleaming hotel across the street. She had enough money. She could stay here until she found a job.

The desk attendant seemed to recognize her when she walked inside. He was young, maybe twenty or so—close to her age, but so much younger. She forced a smile and said, "Can I get a room?"

He nodded. He opened a black book on his desk, wrote something down, and gestured for her to follow him. He led her up a staircase with lovely red carpet, and Christine looked around, a new appreciation for life filling her heart.

As frightening as it was to be jobless again, she had more advantages than before. She had a nice wardrobe, several hundred pounds, and she was much better at speaking English. She breathed in deeply as he led her into a room. She heard him put her suitcase and she removed a five pound note, turning to give it to him.

He raised his hands. "You'll need it." Reaching down, he took her hand and squeezed it gently as he raised it to his lips. "Good luck."

As he made to leave, she called, "How long can I stay here?"

He turned. "This room is always set aside. You'd be amazed how brutal Adelia is—she's always letting someone go. This is the room we put you all in when you end up on the street. You're here as long as you can afford to be here." He nodded, and closed the door.

Christine looked around. The room, though simple, was lovely. A four poster bed stood against the wall in the center of the room. Her mind was racing, but one thing was for certain. She needed a job. Soon.

Crossing the room, she looked out at the window and at Jezebell's. She smirked.

"Fuck you, Adelia," she said. "I don't need you."

She was unpacking when she came across a newspaper from that morning. She wasn't sure why she'd packed it, but she flipped through it. One small article caught her eye. The words "second soprano" and "retirement" and "auditions" jumped out at her. Her heart felt as if it were going to leap out of her chest.

According to the article, she had a week to prepare herself before the auditions would occur. Closing her eyes, she let herself go back to a time, to a place...

_She was on the stage, in front of a crowd who were cheering for her, throwing roses, her dress and __jewelery__ catching the light as she smiled just as radiantly, taking her bows..._

_She was on the stage, in front of a crowd who were scandalized but unable to look away as she sang her way up the stairs and into the arms of a man who part of her still believed to be alive..._

_She was in a closet, her husband raging outside, her hands over her ears as she hummed the lullaby Erik had once sang to her when she had been alone and afraid..._

She opened her eyes. She was back in her room. She was alone again. But she could still hear the crowds, Erik, and Raoul, as if they were all in the room with her at that moment. This was her life—performing. She had to go. What she would sing, how she would get there, would all come with time.

She stripped down to her chemise and climbed into bed, weary and wanting to cry, but unable to. Instead, she thought of what it would be like to be on stage again. She could hear the orchestra, feel the rush she used to get from performing. When she closed her eyes, she could hear him singing to her, saying that he loved her...

When she fell asleep hours later, there were tears streaming down her face.

As much as he wanted to change, Erik found that he was slipping. Returning from London, he had managed to work his way down from three mistresses to one, but he still felt like he needed her around. Why, he wasn't sure. Maybe it was that, since London, he hadn't felt quite right, physically or mentally. He had never felt worse in his life, actually.

Perhaps it was that she seemed to enjoy the time they spent together, or perhaps he felt that he had to have a woman around. His mind wandered as he lay in bed with her, going back to a time when he had been surrounded by women, women he hadn't cared to touch...

_Persia had been a place filled with death, pleasure, and deceit. Women had been offered to him daily, but he had never felt the urge to take them. Usually, he sent them on their way after ignoring them for a time. The only time he had taken one of them was when the queen herself had sent her personal companion, a woman whose political clout was very close to that of the queen herself. The woman had refused to leave, saying that her queen had sent her in and that she would not leave until she had claimed him. He had laughed outright and told her to leave him. She had refused, over and over again, until finally, in __frustration__, Erik had taken her. It may have been to shut her up, but he had felt some pride as she had walked from the room hours later, the smirk gone, replaced by a small grimace as she walked __awkwardly__ from the room._

_Indrina had been his first conquest..._

Next to him, Kerstin, his one remaining mistress, stirred, and he rolled his head to the side to look at her. Her blue eyes opened slowly and she blinked herself awake, brushing blond hair from her face. She was a true Scandinavian beauty, but Erik could care less. She wasn't Christine, and that was what mattered.

"Is it morning yet?" she asked sleepily.

"No." Erik sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and resting his hands on his knees. "It's only three."

"Don't get up," she murmured. "I want you."

He smiled bitterly. "I'm sure you do."

The bed shifted behind him and he felt her hands on his back before her long legs wrapped around him behind. Her lips danced over the back of his neck as she whispered, "I want you to come back to me."

"I haven't gone anywhere."

"You were planning to." She pressed more kisses on the back of his neck. "You're always wandering around at all hours. Is it so horrible that I want you here?" Her lips moved to his ear as her voice dropped lower. "Make love to me, Erik."

Erik let himself be pulled back into bed and let her kiss him. His hands wandered across her back and down lower. She was gasping for breath as he rolled her onto her back. She was moaning and he was about to take her when she whispered, "I love you."

It was as if she'd spit venom in his face. He pulled away, rolling over and climbing from the bed. She called after him, begging for him to come back, but he staggered from the room, grabbing a robe as he went. He could hear her screaming his name as he raced down the stairs and out the front door. Not sure where he was going, he wandered aimlessly across the yard, clutching his chest, which felt tight. He heard yelling behind him, a man this time, and he turned to see his valet walking across the yard clad in a pair of breeches and one stocking. His face was confused looking as he caught up with Erik.

"Sir, Miss Kerstin is..." He trailed off, his look of confusion turning to one of concern. "Are you alright, sir?"

Erik straightened up from the bent posture he had assumed when he had stopped walking. "I'm fine." He wasn't fine. His chest was tight and he was breathless. "Get her out of the house by dawn. I want her as far from me as possible."

"What happened?"

"Just get her out of here!" he roared. "I don't care where you take her or what you do with her—get her out of my sight!"

George took a small step backward. "Yes, sir," he said softly. "I'll have her things removed from her room, as well." He turned and walked back up the yard. As soon as he was gone, Erik fell to his knees, tossing his mask aside as he grasped his hair. He had no idea how long he had been that way before he heard yelling and Kerstin's name being called.

He did not look up as she fell to her knees in front of him, grabbing his hands and sobbing, begging him not to send her away. She loved him, he didn't understand, she needed him beside her, _he _needed _her_...

"Please!" She pulled at his hands. "I love you! I want to be your wife!" She was hysterical. "Please!"

He pulled his hands away from her, raising his head to glare at her. Her hands raised to cover her mouth as she saw his face for the first time.

"You want to marry me?" he sneered, his face twisting into an even uglier version of what it already was. "You know nothing of me—you know nothing of _love_. Get out of my sight, before I show you the monster I can be."

Kerstin scrambled to her feet, crying out as she lost her footing. She caught herself and raced down the road toward town, never looking back as she disappeared into the fog.

His chest was still tight, and he felt tired—_had_ felt tired since returning home. Slowly, he began walking back to the house, trying not to think about how horrible he felt physically at that moment. Stepping inside, he vaguely heard Abby ask if Kerstin had left. Erik hardly heard her—he felt as if there was a hand on his heart, squeezing horribly. He gasped a bit as he slumped against the wall. 

"Sir?" George's face appeared in front of him. "Sir, what is it? What's wrong?"

Erik shook his head. "I'm fine," he managed, trying to stand. He slumped back down, though, and heard George tell Abby to stay put with Erik—he was fetching a doctor.

It took Erik a long time to stand, but with Abby's help he made it . She was very strong for such a tiny woman, he thought vaguely, as she helped him into the parlor and onto the couch. She disappeared for several minutes before she came back with a bowl of water and several clean cloths. Sitting him up and propping several pillows behind him, Abby gently bathed his brow with water. When she came to the scarred side of his face, he grasped her wrist. She swatted him away, saying, "I've seen it before, sir I don't mind. Now, relax—George will be home soon with the doctor and we'll get you fixed up." She smiled tenderly as he stared up at her in confusion. "I'd venture to say you don't recall it." She dipped the cloth in the bowl again and resumed her activity. "You were quite inebriated."

Erik closed his eyes, focusing on the sound of Abby's voice and the feel of the damp cloth against his face. She gently opened the top of his robe, laying another cloth against his chest to cool him even more. It felt wonderful.

He heard the front door open. Erik opened his eyes and a moment later, George was standing at the door with his doctor, a near-seventy man named Peter Jameson. The old man glanced around the room before finding what he was looking for. Pulling an ottoman closer to the couch, he sat on the other side of Abby, who was still bathing his face and chest. The doctor smiled at Abby.

"Good girl, Abby," he said. "Keep that up for now." Turning to Erik, he said, "George says you're having problems breathing."

"His chest, too," Abby said. "He was clutching at his chest earlier. I thought perhaps he was in pain so I've tried to ease it."

Dr. Jameson nodded. "How do you feel now, Erik?"

Erik closed his eyes again. "I feel tired," he answered vaguely. "Like someone's sitting on my chest."

"You feel pressure?" Jameson's brow furrowed a bit. "Have you felt ill at all before today?"

He nodded. "I've not felt myself since I came home from London."

"How have you felt since then?"

"Tired. A bit more stressed than usual."

"You need rest." Jameson's face was grave as he reached into his bag. He checked Erik's reflexes and listened to his breathing before he asked, "I'm going to leave you with some pain killers," he said. "You've had a mild heart attack—you should be grateful that it was no worse than it was. You should stay in bed for at least a week." As Erik opened his mouth to object, the doctor raised a hand to silence him. "You get out of that bed and into stress, you'll kill yourself." He sighed. "What triggered it?"

Erik scowled. "That _woman—_"

"That's enough out of you, sir." Abby's firm voice interrupted him before he could elaborate. "You've had quite enough excitement for one night. I'll tell Dr. Jameson all about it later." She smiled cheerily, redampening the cloth and pressing it against his chest. "Does that help?"

Erik nodded, letting his tired eyes drift shut. "Feels good," he muttered. He felt like he was drifting as Abby bathed his brow, giving relief to his scorched brow. He heard George and the doctor leave, but Abby remained, sitting at his side and changing the cloth that rested on his chest while she dabbed his forehead.

"What is today?" he asked, opening his eyes.

"Sunday," she said softly.

"You'll miss church if you stay, won't you?"

"I suppose." She sighed. "You can't be left alone just yet, though."

"When George gets back, tell him to fetch the minister." Erik closed his eyes again. "I wish him to give you both communion."

Even with his eyes shut, he could see the confusion that had to be on Abby's face. "Sir?"

"I want you to have communion and I wish to speak with him myself."

"Are you religious, sir?"

"No," he whispered. He hated to admit it, but if he were going to start over, this seemed the time to do it. "I was raised a Catholic, but I'm going to start going to church again."

Abby squeezed his hand and turned the cloth. "Get some sleep, sir. I'll wake you when the pastor arrives."

He nodded, letting himself drift out of consciousness and the next thing he knew, someone was shaking him awake. Opening his eyes, he saw that it was midday and that George was back. He smiled when Erik opened his eyes, saying, "Welcome back."

Erik looked around, his eyes landing on the black-clad man standing in the corner, holding a bible in front of him and wearing a small smile. He didn't seem very old—no older than himself, actually. His face had none of the lines that came with stress, nor was there any gray in his brown hair, and his eyes, blue ones, were clear and bright as he stared right back at Erik.

"George says you've not felt well today." The young minister smiled. "It's good you want the Lord's help—He's one you can always count on in times of trouble." Sitting, he opened his bible, announcing that he would be reading from Mark's gospel.

Erik let his eyes close as the words drifted over him. He was taken back to a time when he believed in church and mass and wondered when it had taken the turn that it had. The church had never done anything to him. _He_ had done things to the church—locally, in any case.

After nearly an hour of reading and council, the young pastor said, "I would ask that we pray, now."

Erik folded his hands hesitantly over his stomach, glancing at Abby and George, whose heads were bowed. He followed suit, slowly remembering how the whole thing went. He listened as the man prayed for Erik's health, for the strength of Abby and George in his care-taking, and for the wisdom of Dr. Jameson.

When he finished, he collected his bible and a small bag he had brought with him. Smiling, he stopped at Erik's side. "I'll look forward to seeing you in church when you're well again."

Erik nodded, and the man left. George stood to see him out, and Abby resumed her actions of cooling him. Closing his eyes, Erik let himself drift back to sleep, feeling as if some of the weight had lifted from his chest already.

Adelia had nearly finished clearing out the room that had previously been inhabited by Christine. It was a shame she'd had to let the girl go, but she knew firsthand that once a girl cried there was no stopping her from crying every time she went to bed with a man.

Glancing at the bed, she stared at the envelope there. Shaking her head, she tossed it into the trash bin. It couldn't be important, and it wasn't her business to open it, in any case. She put it out of her mind and went back downstairs...

_Dear Christine,_

_I feel terrible to be telling you this now, since I will be gone before you return. I want you to know, first and foremost, that I will always value your friendship and that I will miss you so much. My address is in the postscript if you need to find me._

_I must tell you that, two months ago, I __briefly__ entered the employment of a man we both know. It was that man that gave me a ridiculous amount of money for the whole night. I never told you why he tipped me so much. He said he felt responsible for what had happened to me, that I had turned to prostitution as a means of survival. In a way, he was, as it is was Erik, the Opera Ghost himself._

_My darling, I feel terrible for not telling you this long ago. I am telling you because he said that when he returns to London next month he will again employ me, and I wish for you to find him. I know in my heart that he still loves you, and I suspect that you return the sentiment. He will take care of you and will take you away from this life we live. You would never have to worry about anything again—he's become quite the business man, as I'm sure you'll see!_

_Come visit me soon, my friend—I miss you so much already._

_Yours with the utmost sincerity,_

_Michelle_

_a/n Okay, so here's the deal. Updates are either going to be crazy fast or slower than decomposition because I have juries coming up. It's dead week, but I still have two projects and practice, and I may have tonsillitis. Let's hope that I don't, because that would REALLY suck. Rock on, out, and hard. Leave me reviews, because they make me happy, and cross your fingers, because I need all the luck I can get!_


	6. Chapter 5

_A/n FIRST AND FOREMOST: If you are at all bothered by domestic violence, I strongly recommend __skipping__ the middle bit of this chapter that is in italics. It's a bit more graphic than I usually get. Be warned before proceeding..._

_This chapter contains a salute to a fantastic opera performer and in my opinion one of the most wonderful mezzos of all time! I love you, Anne Sophie!_

_Also, I feel I owe you a __brief__explanation__ to a reference that's in this chapter and will likely come up again. In opera, we have what is called a breeches or pants role—that's what Christine was supposed to be doing in _Il Mutto_ (even though real pants roles have singing parts). It's basically a reverse __eunic__, if you want to put it in a nutshell—instead of being played by a man as a woman, it's a woman as a man (usually a mezzo-soprano or contralto). At some point later, I'm going to put this woman in a pair of pants and throw her on stage, and there's some references in this chapter to singing a bit lower._

_Why am I telling you this? I don't know. I had a music ed moment. MEZZO-SOPRANOS ARE GOING TO TAKE OVER THE WORLD AND BLAST YOU WITH OUR MAD RANGES!_

**CHAPTER 5**

Working out her lower range had been harder than Christine had initially thought it would be. She had selected "Voi che sapete" from Mozart's _Nozze di Figaro_ and, unexpectedly, had encountered problems the first time she had run through it. Having hired a young man off the street to read a condensed score for her to practice to, she had frowned as her voice had nearly dropped out at a middle C. She hardly had enough to hire the boy to play for her, let alone find a voice teacher.

She had allowed her mind to wander and vaguely remembered something Erik had once told her about these lower notes...

_You must not think like a soprano, and that these notes are too low. You must have the mindset of the contralto. You must believe that these notes are midrange. You must _breathe_ as if these notes are midrange!_

A deep breath from deep in her belly, one that expanded her diaphragm and not her chest, filled her and she immediately let out the most wonderful "l'alma avvampar" yet.

Now, she tried hard to focus on everything she learned and prayed that her voice would not fail her after so many years of disuse. A man stepped into the waiting area and called out, "Katrin von Otter?"

Christine got out of her chair, responding easily to the stage name she had adopted to avoid scandal. Following the man, she forced her breathing back to normal as she so that she could sing. She straightened the dress she still had from being married to Raoul. She looked every bit the part of a wealthy and successful diva in the amathest and lavender taffeta and silk dress. Her hair was piled up into an elegant twist like the ones she had worn when she had been married. She straightened up and set back her shoulders as she stepped onto the stage. She briefly introduced herself, handing down her resume to a chorus boy who was acting as a runner for the managers who sat in the center of the theatre.

As the music began, she inhaled deeply. The acoustics allowed her to hear herself differently than she had all week, and to her, it sounded as if her voice had changed. No longer as young as she had been, there was a fuller tone to it, which allowed her low notes to ring differently.

The managers nodded throughout, glancing at her between writing notes. Halfway through her song, a young man quietly entered the theatre, walking toward the managers. There was something of a strut in his walk and he swung an umbrella in one hand and twirled a hat on the other. He settled into a seat behind the managers, slouching back and crossing one leg lazily over the other. He propped his chin on his fist as he watched Christine, a critical look in his eye.

She finished and, staring the smirking young man straight in the eye, thanked the managers for their time. Smiling pleasantly, she gave a small bow and exited the way she came in. The man from before grabbed her elbow, gesturing for her to wait, and poked his head back into the theatre. He peered out and nodded at something she could not hear. Silently, he led her to a different room in the back of the house.

"You're to wait here, please," he said. "If there are any more girls to be called back, they'll join you, but if not, you'll have the job." He smiled encouragingly. "Not likely there'll be anyone else. There's only two girls left after you and they're already chorus girls. Auditioned for better roles before—neither of them can really project like they need to."

Christine tried not to let her hopes run away with themselves as he disappeared, closing the door behind him. She removed her gloves, burying her burning face in her hands and trying not to watch the clock as the minutes ticked by. She found herself calculating how long it would take the two girls to go, and forced her mind elsewhere, like where she would go next if didn't get the job here. Adelia might have an address for Michelle—she could try to track her down, maybe get a job with her. Her friend had mentioned wanting to work in a proper dress shop. Maybe Christine could get a job just doing hems until she could find work elsewhere. It was with reluctance that she spent money, now. Any day it could run out. The dress had cost a bit to get repaired from a seam that had popped long ago when Raoul had thrown her across a room in a fit of drunken jealousy.

Shaking her head to clear it, Christine rose as the door opened. One of the managers stood in the door. He smiled as he entered, pulling up another chair to sit across from her. He gave a small bow and gestured for her to sit before sitting down himself. He clapped his hands together once, lacing his fingers together.

"Well!" Beaming, he held out a hand here, introducing himself as James Hartwell. "We're pleased to offer you a position here," he said happily, "just thrilled!" He was rubbing his hands together excitedly as he spoke, and seemed as if he truly was thrilled. "We'd like to run a show with you and see how things go—the rehearsal, the chemistry with the rest of the company, the show, all that." He waved his hands, seeming a bit flustered with having to go through all the motions. "I assume you've been on stage before?"

Christine felt her face redden as she nodded shortly. "Years ago. I have decided that this is the only place where I am truly happy."

Mr. Hartwell smiled. "Then you truly are a performer." Sifting thought he pile of papers he was carrying, he pulled out a bound volume. _COSÍ FAN TUTTE _was imprinted in black lettering on the front cover. Underneath, in smaller letters, was the name _Dorabella_.

Christine smiled. "I am assuming that this is me for the next two months?"

Hartwell nodded. "This is you, yes. You'll be playing secondary soprano parts and mezzo parts, when they apply. We're not sure what we will be doing after this yet. At the moment, you'll likely be wearing pants."

Christine laughed. "As long as I'm singing."

Hands clapped together again and an excited Mr. Hartwell got to his feet. "Will you be staying with us here in the house, or do you have a flat?"

Christine shook her head. "I have been staying in a hotel until I find somewhere more permanent. It would be lovely if I could stay here."

"Ah." Hartwell beamed again. "Just arrived from France, I assume?"

She had forgotten her apparently strong accent. "Yes," she said shortly. "Just in the last two weeks."

"You speak the language here very well," he said happily. "You'll find not everyone does. We're always hitting language barriers with our tenor, bless him." Hartwell rolled his eyes skyward. "We hired a Portuguese tenor last year. He has the most amazing voice I've ever heard for his age and has wonderful diction when he is singing, but as sometimes when he tries to actually speak and comprehend English, he gets a bit flustered." Hartwell actually crossed himself before he stood up. "Excuse me for just a moment, won't you?"

Christine nodded, and flipped through her score while he stepped into the hallway. She was hardly in when she came to the trio that had always been her favorite in an opera. "Soave sia il vento" had always been a favorite. Trios never seemed to happen enough, and this one was with the bass rather than tenor, which she felt made the sound a great deal fuller. She hoped that her fellow company members were more likable than those in Paris had been...

The door opened again and Mr. Hartwell reappeared with the smirking man from before. "This is Archibald Palmer," he said cheerily. "Mr. Palmer is our primary investor. He will help you with moving your things into your apartment here."

"That is very generous of you, but I'm sure I can do it on my own—I haven't that many belongings here yet." Truth be told, she had had enough of opera investors, the last one having turned out so well.

Mr. Palmer wouldn't have it, though. He insisted on helping Christine to move her things, and the next thing she knew, she was in a carriage with him.

She sensed a change in him after they left. At the opera house he had been mischievous and almost flirtatious. Now, he was every bit the gentleman. He stared out the window, occasionally pointing things out to her as they rode along, and she studied him, trying to figure out exactly what kind of character he was. He was very good looking. His brown hair was a bit messy, but in an attractive way. When he glanced her way, she could see that his eyes were gray, like the sea before a storm. He was tall, but not so tall that she had to crane her neck to look at him. He was also familiar to her, and she kept feeling as if she should be staring at him from across a crowded room.

When the carriage stopped, she felt her stomach turn a bit. He hoped that he did not notice Jezebel's across the street. However, the first thing his eyes strayed to was the large house, which a woman was currently entering. Christine watched as the woman knocked. The door opened and Adelia appeared, shepherding the girl inside.

"Your replacement, I'm guessing?"

Christine's head snapped to Palmer, who was standing with a small smile on his face. She straightened up a bit, hoisting her chin hastily into the air. "I have no idea what you're talking about." Turning, she hurried into the hotel and away from his stare.

She heard him following her up the stairs just before he said, "Really, it's alright—I recognize you from the opera. You were there with that scum, Andrew."

At her door, Christine paused, staring at him inquisitively. "What?"

"You came to see—"

"No, I mean you called Andrew scum. Why?"

Palmer smiled a bit. "You're not going to argue with me?"

"Answer the question."

Palmer stared at her for a moment before he said, "How many bags do you have?" He rushed past her into the room and she stared at him, a bit perplexed.

"Mr. Palmer—"

"Archie."

"I'm sorry?"

"I like to be called Archie." He folded his arms, looking around. "You're very tidy, aren't you?"

Christine nodded silently. "My husband never liked a mess," she said softly.

"You're married?"

"Widowed." She began to pack the few things that were out. "He shot himself."

Archie looked at his hands before glancing out the window. "Did they know why?"

She shrugged, ignoring the lurch in her stomach that happened every time she thought back to that night. "I never gave him children and I wasn't the perfect wife, apparently." Everything packed, she walked to stand next to Archie. She followed his gaze down to Jezebel's and glanced at his face. There was a thoughtful look there. "Mister—Archie?"

"Hmm?"

"I'm ready to go."

He snapped out of his daze and turned around, crossing the room to pick up her bags. She picked up the key from the table where she had tossed it upon arriving. Taking one last look around at the room that had sheltered her for a week, she closed and locked the door. She turned and headed down the stairs, Archie following behind her silently. She dropped the key at the desk and walked out the door, not looking at Jezebel's or Adelia, who was standing outside with a small smile on her face, as if she knew Christine would get along just fine.

The carriage ride back was not as silent as it had been on the way to the hotel. Christine had questions for Archie.

"How do you know Andrew?"

"Which one is your real name?" Apparently he had questions, as well. He smiled at the odd look on her face. "I know your name isn't Claire, and I'm suspicious that it's not Katrin. Don't worry." He smiled encouragingly. "I won't tell anyone. Quite the contrary. We'll strike up a deal. You answer a few of my questions, and I'll answer a few of yours, and maybe we can help each other."

"Help each other how?"

"I'll explain in a bit. What's your name?"

"How do I know you won't tell?"

Archie rubbed his temples. "Fine. I'll go first." He heaved a weary sigh. "I represent my uncle here. He lives in Scotland, you see, and he wanted to be 'invested in something' and I'd mentioned wanting to go to London. He sent me here to find something that would bring in what it put out and the opera was looking for someone to fund them. I saw a few shows and liked what they were doing, among other things." Holding up a hand to stop the question that would inevitably come with the confused look on her face, he continued. "I wrote home that I thought it was a worthwhile investment and he agreed with a lump of cash. I gave it to the managers with a contract, which they liked, and went out to enjoy the nightlife of London. That was how I met Andrew."

When he didn't say anything for a bit, Christine decided she needed to remind him that this was nothing she could hold against him if she told him anything about herself at all, and he nodded, snapping out of yet another daze before he continued.

"Andrew seemed an enigma to me when I first met him. He hardly spoke and when he did, he didn't have much to say. I'd heard rumors that he had... slightly different tastes than most men. I mentioned something about it one evening after a show and he was furious—said he wasn't a sick man and that he liked to 'fuck sweet little things,' I do believe he said. He went storming out after I had hoped that the rumors would be true."

Christine felt a bit perplexed by the whole story, and it made no sense to her. "Why would you want a rumor like that to be true?"

Archie's eyes met Christine's and there was an undecipherable look on his face. "If the rumors were true," he said quietly, "I wouldn't have to be so alone anymore."

It took a moment for the weight of what Archie had just implied to sing in fully, but when it did, Christine understood that no matter what she told him, she would have the power to ruin him for the rest of his life. She knew what happened to men like Archie Palmer. They were cut off from their rightful inheritances, shunted by society, and looked upon as mentally ill. If Archie breathed a word of what he knew, she could send him straight to hell on Earth.

She began speaking slowly. "I..." She took a deep breath. "I was born in Sweden, but I came to Paris after my father died to stay with a dear old friend of his. She was the one who started me in the theatre. I was trained as a ballerina."

"But you sing."

Christine smiled. "That's an entirely different story, my dear Archie, and one for another time." She continued. "I met my husband there. He was the son of the primary investor and was representing them, like you do for your uncle. I had known him as a child and he remembered me." Pausing, Christine quickly decided to skip a great deal of details and cut straight to what counted for today. "We got to know each other again and we were married about six months later. We'd been married for several years and I'd had several miscarriages when he killed himself. I couldn't take it, I suppose, so I left France that night."

Archie held up a hand, frowning. "You just left? You didn't go to the funeral or anything? He was your husband!"

"Yes, he was." A very bitter smile crossed her face. "I told you I wasn't the perfect wife, didn't I? He wasn't the perfect husband, either."

She jerked a bit as Archie took her hand, pulling her arm toward him. "Is that where this came from?" he asked quietly.

Looking down, Christine saw one of so many scars, this one a permanent burn scar on her left forearm. She felt tears in her eyes and she nodded, her throat constricting as she remembered another night that could have left her dead...

_The house was remarkably quiet tonight, and Christine was glad. She was tired __beyond__ anything she had ever felt before, and all she wanted was to climb into her bed and hope her husband was having a good night. The last few months had been nothing short of frightening. Raoul had taken to the bottle to relax from his work, and he was nothing short of frightening when he came home if he had lost at a game of cards or was just in a foul mood. She hoped tonight would be different. She wanted Raoul to come home and come to bed so she could tell him her news._

_She heard the front door open and soft footsteps coming up the stairs. She curled onto her side, saying a prayer that he would either be sober or silent. The door opened and she heard Raoul undress. She could smell liquor from across the room and resolved to tell him in the morning..._

_The bed shifted as he climbed in, not putting out the candle he had brought in with him. "Wake up," he whispered. "C'mon, Chrishtine, wakie wakie for your husband." He grabbed at her breast, and she winced. It didn't go missed by Raoul. Roughly, he rolled her onto her back. "Wassamatter with you?" he slurred. He almost looked a bit hurt. "Doesn't it feel good when I grab you?"_

"_It just hurts a little when you..." She trailed off, __embarrassed._

"_What?"_

"_When you do it so hard."_

_Raoul's face clouded over. Grunting, he rolled away from her. She didn't shift to face him, but closed her eyes, __resolving__ to sleep. After a minute, she felt his hands on her waist. She fought a sigh and let him straddle her, pinning her hands up. Opening her eyes, she was shocked to see that his free hand was dangling his __house key__ over the candle._

"_It's the key to my heart, Chishtine." He laughed drunkenly. She squirmed, trying desperately to escape his grasp, but he was too strong. She screamed and cried as he brought the key down to rest on her skin and left it there until it had cooled. When he pulled away, taking the key with him, Christine looked at her arm. The key had left a blistered, aching mess on her arm, and she clutched at it as she sobbed. Raoul got out of bed and walked around to her side. She was still crying as he pulled her out, kissing her roughly. When she did not respond the way he wanted, he tossed her away as if she were a rag doll._

_Thinking it was over, she had tried to calm him. He would not be soothed. Angrily, he backhanded her. She collapsed into a chair but was pulled out of it only to be hit once more across the face. She could taste blood as she tried to retaliate, but he was too strong. Tossing her to the floor, he kicked her over and over as she screamed for him to stop. He didn't listen. In his rage, he could not hear her._

_When he stopped, she expected the terror to end. It didn't. Ripping her cotton night gown from her, he threw her to the bed. She tried to crawl away from him, to escape. He pulled her back, removing his belt and tying her hands to the __bed frames__ so that she could not escape. She cried as he calmly removed his clothes before climbing on top of her. Her tears doubled when she felt him enter her unprepared body. His lips were against her ear as he whispered, "It's not rape if it's your husband."_

_He continued what he was doing and the torture seemed to go on forever until she felt him release. Groaning, he spilled into her, jerking violently as he covered her mouth with one hand. Still pressing his lips against her ear, he whispered, "I love you, Christine."_

_She sobbed as he pulled out of her, blowing out the candle and pulling up the covers. He pulled her close to him and she cried as she tried to figure out when they had gone so horribly wrong..._

_The next morning was the day of her __first__ miscarriage._

Christine shook her head to clear it of the horrible memories. Archie was staring expectantly at her, and she simply smiled at him. Nodding again, she said softly, "Yes. My husband did this a long time ago."

Archie folded his hands in his lap. "You never did answer that first question, you know. I still want to know your name."

"Christine." She stared at the passing buildings, feeling hollow that her own name sounded so foreign on her own tongue. "My name is Christine."

"Christine." He sounded as if he were tasting her name as he said it again. "Well, Christine." Archie Palmer smiled slightly. "You keep my secret, I'll keep yours."

"That sounds like a deal, Mr. Palmer."

"Archie."

"Yes. Archie."

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

Erik was tired again. The day had been busier than those preceding it, and he came home, wanting nothing more than to crawl into bed and go to sleep.

Time had passed, but at the pace of a slow belly crawl. Work was no longer as interesting as it had once been. He had been stuck in the office, hidden behind a pile of paperwork so that he wasn't at risk of having a spell on a job site. He went to work every day, tired and wishing for nothing more than to escape to somewhere far away. Spain sounded nice at the moment, and he wondered what was going on in Barcelona. All he really wanted, though, was just somewhere away from any bad memories he had of anyone or anything.

There was a sound of footsteps behind him and he glanced across the porch to see Abby walking toward him with a tray bearing his dinner. She smiled at him as she placed it in front of him.

"You're looking a bit better than yesterday, sir." Another motherly smile crossed his face and it was all Erik could do not to heave a sigh. He forced a smile in return and slowly began to eat. Abby seemed quite content to stand by and watch him eat, but the door opened again and George appeared.

"Abby, I need your help with something." As Abby stood and walked past George into the house, George gave his lord a wink. "I'll keep her busy," he whispered loudly. "Get some peace and quiet while you can."

Erik chuckled and George disappeared. He had a suspicion that George would have no trouble keeping Abby busy for at least an hour or so. It seemed that his illness had brought them a bit closer to each other. Only last week he had seen them embracing on the terrace. He'd been hesitant to disturb them—they had looked so peaceful. It was a picture of something he had always wanted, and he had found himself watching them for a long time. Abby had leaned against George, who held her close, resting his chin atop her head and staring out at the sea. Eventually, they moved, jerking Erik from his thoughts, and, a bit bitter, he had returned to the house.

He found himself approving of Abby and George, nevertheless. As two of only a small handful of people on the entire earth that he trusted fully, they were important to him. Abby, young as she was, had taken on the role of a mother or a sister, depending on the day. George was becoming more of a good friend than just a butler, often joking with Erik and scowling when he did not approve of something his master did, especially if it was bad for his health.

Erik was just beginning to drift off when he heard a horse approaching. Sighing softly, he opened his eyes to see a black stallion trotting up his lane, the man on top coming into clearer view. Erik shook his head. His young neighbor never seemed to forget to stop by when, after visiting home for a few days a month, returning to London. Erik liked that he never took a carriage. His youthful friend said he enjoyed the fresh air that he left behind in Scotland every time he returned to the smog of London.

At the end of the drive now, he hopped down. Tying his horse to the stake, he approached Erik with a concerned look on his face. "My uncle says you've had a heart attack?"

Erik nodded. "If I could only get Abby to stop mothering me, maybe I'd be able to go back to work."

Archie Palmer shook his head in amusement. "You only care about going back to work. Live it up a bit, old man. You won't be around forever."

"I've lived it up, Archie." Erik took a drink of water from the glass on the tray. "It's not for me."

"I don't mean those whores." Archie waved his hands in frustration. "You need to get away. You need to come back to London with me one of these weeks. Maybe that sweet young thing you had last time will still be there."

"I thought you said you didn't mean whores."

"Escorts—not whores."

Rolling his eyes, Erik put the glass back on the tray and leaned back once more. "I've had it with women, Archie. I'll never settle down—I'm a confirmed bachelor."

Archie made a noise of annoyance and crossed his arms, pulling up another chair and crossing his feet in front of him. "You'll find the right woman eventually."

"I'll find her when you find one for yourself," Erik retorted.

Archie blushed. "What would you do if I told you I found one?"

Erik burst into laughter. "You found one what? A woman? I'll believe it when I see it!"

Archie frowned. "I did," eh said indignantly. "she's the new second soprano. Her name's Katrin."

Erik's laughter subsided just enough that he was able to ask, "Does she expect marriage?"

"No." Archie heaved a sigh. "She knows everything about me and I know everything about her. She just keeps up appearances."

Erik had stopped laughing, but he was still smiling. "That may just be worth hauling myself into town. It will have to wait, though. Right now, I need to get back to my old self."

"But you'll come?"

"In due time, yes. Yes, Archie, I'll come meet your girl."

_a/n Poof! The plot thickens!_

_Okay, long ass chapter—maybe the longest I've ever written. It all got deleted at one point, though, because NeoOffice randomly shut down and only saved a little bit of it from before. Ugh._

_There was quite a bit to set up, though. Don't get your hopes up quite yet. Our beloved couple won't be running into each other just yet. A few more chapters and stuff, first. We must bring back Michelle, after all... :)_

_Keep it real—leave a review!_

_BTW—I feel the urge to explain a few confusing words that may have cropped up. I ran a spell check on autopilot (I'm trying to get ready for work) and some words are a but funky. Sorry, guys—if you're loyal readers of mine (apparently I have a couple—didn't know that!) you know this about me..._

_GRACE_

_CAN'T_

_SPEEL..._

_I mean spell..._


	7. Chapter 6

_a/n Nothing to say except..._

_I'm sorry? I love you? Don't hate me? I'm borderline nuts and on drugs:)_

_The plot thickens! Enjoy!_

**CHAPTER 6**

_The hallway was a mess. Trinkets from a table were on the floor while the table itself was lying on its side, one of its three legs having been knocked off. The house, however, seemed to be deserted. Not a sound, other than her own footsteps, could be heard. It was almost stiffelling, as if damp summer heat had settled into the house, although the weather outside was bitterly cold. To her left, a door stood ajar. She glanced inside._

_Lying spread-eagled on his back on the floor was her husband. His coat had been tossed onto the winged back of a chair in front of the fire and a bottle of expensive brandy was clutched in his left hand. His blond hair fanned around his head, which was tilted off to the side. Blood was flowing from his open mouth, staining his hair and the carpet. It would be dreadful to clean, she thought, as she wrapped his fingers more firmly around the trigger. Hopefully, though, she would be gone before they found him..._

_His eyes opened and he stared at her for a moment before he said, "Why did you kill me?"_

_She did not hesitate in her answer. "You deserved to die after what you put me though."_

_He sat up, pulling his knees up so that he could rest his elbows on them, he peered up at her. "Did you remember to go to confession, at least?"_

"_What do you take me for?" She straightened up, scowling. "Of course I did."_

"_Of course." He lay back, making sure to fan his hair out again before he closed his eyes. As she turned to go, he called out, "What did he say?"_

"_Who?"_

"_The priest. What did he say, Katie?"_

_She started to answer, then frowned again, turning to look back at him. "What did you call me?"_

_His eyes opened and he pulled his already grotesque mouth into a sneer. "Katie, Katie, Katie," he said in a singsong voice. "Little Katie."_

"_Stop it."_

"_Katie, Katie, she went to confession. Katie, Katie, she moved to a whorehouse."_

"_Stop it, right this second!"_

"_Katie, Katie, goes out with a fag. Katie, Katie, the opera house mouse..."_

"Katie?"

"_Stupid whore." He pounded his fists on the floor as he laughed at her._

"Katie!"

"_Raoul, stop!"_

"Katrin! Wake up!"

Sitting bolt upright, Christine felt as if she were going to be sick. She had to work to remember where she was.

"Katie! You're going to be late!"

It wasn't Raoul, and she wasn't at her house of pain in Paris anymore. She was in her apartment in an opera house in London and Zinaida Belogorov, the prima ballerina, was banging on her door.

"I'm coming, Zina!" Scrambling out of bed, Christine dressed hurriedly, barely managing to do up her corset before throwing on a white muslin dress with red trim and tying her hair back with a red ribbon. She pinched her pale cheeks and smeared a bit of rouge onto her lips, quickly powdering her shiny face and popping a mint from a tray into her mouth.

Throwing the door open, she was face to face with Zina. The other woman was already dressed, her long, blond hair tied back. Zina smiled, cocking her head off to the side before saying in her thick Russian accent, "Sorry, did I wake you?"

Christine rolled her eyes. "I was just thinking of what to wear tonight."

Zina squealed and clapped her hands together. If there was any way to distract Zina, is was to bring up a party. The midsummer gala being thrown that night at the opera house was to be a massive event. The ballet would be performing, as well as Zina dancing a solo dance. The prima donna, Donata Castillo, would be performing a solo, as would Armando Henriques, the lead tenor. Christine was to sing a duet from _The Magic Flute_ with Ezekiel Lewis, the lead baritone, and the pair of them would be reviving their trio from their last Mozart opera. The latter, she was excited about. Hearing Donata's dramatics before hand, however, would not be the highlight of her evening. The diva was much more tolerable than Carlotta had been, but she had been known to "faint" in times of great stress. Archie informed her that he had heard her practicing her fainting spells one night and that, since then, he had not been so gracious to her.

Christine and Zina had reached the bottom of the stairs and were working their way through the throng of people backstage before Zina seemed to stop for breath.

"Isn't it exciting, Katie?" She took Christine's hand, pulling her forward. "I will be going unaccompanied, of course, but you—you get to go with Mr. Palmer! He is so very handsome, don't you think?"

Christine smiled happily. "Oh, yes," she said cheerily. "I consider myself lucky that he continues to spend so much time with me."

"He seems so attentive," Zina said. "So when are you going to tell me..." She winked.

Christine tossed her hair in a teasingly haughty manner. "I," she said regally, "am a lady, and a lady never tells her secrets."

Christine and Archie Palmer had been doing wonderfully in keeping up the charade that they were a happy young couple, head over heals in love with each other. Most of London society felt envy for Archie at having landed such a beauty. What the didn't know was that "Mr. Palmer and his Katie" were more like a brother and sister than anything. The time spent at his elaborate townhouse was usually spent playing card games, telling jokes, and cooking. Christine had been surprised to find that Archie was a fine cook who enjoyed making delectable meals for them to share. They often teased each other about the rumors flying around the opera house, everything from that they were getting married to they were involved in a passionate sexual play that had left Christine pregnant.

Still smiling with the joy of her true secret, Christine waved as she walked onto the stage with Zina. Archie saw her and trotted over, wrapping his arms around her and spinning her about. She laughed happily and he kissed her cheek before putting her back down. Before she could say anything, there was a dull thump from the front of the stage and a sharp upswing in the noise. Looking over, Christine rolled her eyes as she saw that Donata was in the middle of her dramatic fainting spells. Archie promptly excused himself, acting as if he hadn't heard her hit the floor, and snuck out the back. Christine snorted as he pulled his hat down lower so no one would see him.

The tenor, Armando, stepped over to to Zina and Christine, barely hiding the smile on his face. "We may speak in French, please?"

Christine nodded, knowing what was coming. The same exchange always happened in French, which Armando spoke better than English, and which surprisingly few of the cast spoke.

"How long?" he asked.

"I'm going to say..." Christine looked over at Donata. "Ten minutes."

"Fifteen."

"How much?"

"Five shillings?"

Discretely, they shook hands and each passed their money to Zina, who hid it in her pockets. Zina took Armando's pocket watch, and the trio of them turned to watch Donata while her maid fluttering about wildly, trying to find smelling salts to revive her. No one understood them as the three of them chattered away in French about their usual "How Long Donata Will Stay Down" bet. The odds were currently on Christine, who had been right the last two times, but Armando thought it was his turn, since no one could make such a guess three times in a row and be correct all three times.

Nine minutes after she had gone down, Donata suddenly sat up, looking dazed and confused. Seeming to forget where she was, Donata asked, in her native Italian, for a glass of water. When no one understood, she looked around, seemed to remember where she was, and switched to English.

"She's such an actress," Zina said dryly as she slid her hand into Christine's pocket, letting ten shillings fall in, while Armando shook his head in disbelief.

"How you do it," he muttered, "I'll never know."

With Donata revived, rehearsals for that night finally began. At the request of their musical director, Christine, Donata, and the bass, Ezekiel, took center stage. Donata took her time getting there, taking a long drink of water. She took so long, in fact, that Ezekiel took it upon himself to begin a round of "Sumer is Icumen In," which, although Christine found nearly impossible to understand due to the old English lyrics, made her laugh. She sang along as best she could and Donata rolled her eyes as the pair of them roped in Armando, Zina, and a few chorus members. Even Archie poked his head out to join in the fun. Within minutes, the stage was mayhem until Mr. Hartwell appeared, laughing, but insisting that they all get to work.

"There's a lot to do before tonight," he said cheerily. "Lets get to work, everyone." He winked at Ezekiel, leaning in to say quietly, "Sounded very good, though."

Zeke took a deep, exaggerated bow, taking Christine's hand and pulling her into a curtsy. "Katie here was my partner in crime."

"As usual," Hartwell said, laughing so that his belly jiggled a bit. Glancing down at his watch, his eyes widened. "Off to work, everyone!" he called.

Before Donata had made her way over, Zeke quickly spun Christine, dipping her nearly to the floor, before pulling her back up. He set her on her feet again and the pair of them quickly did their best to look as though nothing had happened as Donata glared at them. Christine settled herself on Zeke's left, while Donata was on his right, and they began their trio. Christine was a bit surprised when they made it all the way through without the conductor, Herr Biermann, stopping them and yelling about one thing or another that someone was doing wrong. When they were done, Zeke and Christine left the stage so that Donata could sing her solo.

When rehearsal was over three hours later, Christine made her way offstage to where Archie was standing, waiting for her.

"Would you care for lunch?" he asked, taking her hand and tucking it under his arm.

Christine smiled. "I would love to."

Archie smiled. As they made their way down the front steps of the opera house and into the busy street, Archie asked, "Are you ready for tonight?"

Christine smiled. "I know all my music and I have the most lovely dress—it's gold and made of silk. It's so cool, I can't see myself getting overheated and fainting."

"Oh, I'm sure someone will faint tonight."

"Yes, she always does."

The pair of them laughed about Donata all the way to their favorite cafe. Once they were seated and munching on sandwiches, Archie switched the subject back to the ball.

"I have a friend coming in," he said excitedly. "He doesn't really think I've landed myself a girl, see. I want to introduce you." His eyes twinkled. "I think you'd like him."

Christine smiled. This wasn't the first time Archie had tried to set her up with a friend of his. She suspected he felt guilty for her lack of a romantic relationship with a man, but she was happier without one. It was refreshing to be in the company of a man who did not expect sex, children, or both, from her. She humored him, however, as she usually did. "I'll be happy to meet your friend, mister..."

"Baron," Archie corrected. "Baron McLeod, or Edinburgh."

Christine thought the name sounded familiar. "McLeod," she muttered, racking her brains. "Why does that..." She trailed off, frowning. "Baron McLeod, the architect?"

"The very same." Archie looked pleased that she knew the name. "You've met him?"

Christine made a face. "Of course not, but who hasn't heard of the man?"

Archie frowned. "What do you mean?"

"He's notorious!" Christine shook her head. "Absolutely not."

"Notorious for what?"

"For God's sake, Archie, how long have you known him?"

"Since he came to Britain several years ago."

"How many women have you seen him with in all that time?" Archie's lack of answer said enough for Christine. "You see? I heard that last count the man had five mistresses, none of whom he wanted around for anything other than sex!" She shook her head. "That's not for me."

"Well that was before his attack," Archie said desperately.

"His attack?"

Nodding, Archie said quickly, "He had a heart attack and an epiphany! He's pretty much given up on women, you see."

"I'm sure," she said dryly.

"Listen, he's coming to the ball tonight—said something about never wanting to go to the opera again. Just meet him, and—"

"Do you _want_ to go to the ball alone?" she asked darkly. Archie shook his head. "Then drop it. I'm not meeting that man."

Archie sighed, but resolved to see to it that they at least caught a glance of each other from across the room.

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"Can't you get it any tighter?"

"If I get it any tighter, you'll pop out!"

"I'm trying to. Not all of us have handsome investors to go with."

"Here maybe if you just do this—"

"Ouch!"

"I'm sorry, but you want to pop out! I'm trying to make that possible."

"You don't have to break my back, you know!"

"Stop being so whiny—we're women, we do this all the time."

"Jesus, Katie, I can hardly breathe!"

"At least look at yourself before you decide to kill me. God, you're going to fall out!"

"That's the idea." Adjusting herself, Zina exhaled as best she could. "Wow." Turning sideways, she examined herself in the mirror. "Look at them! They look huge!"

Christine smiled wryly. "That's what you wanted."

"They've never looked so big before! How do you do that?"

Christine shrugged, not mentioning Jezebel's and that the entire point of getting dressed to go out had been making your breasts look as large as possible. "Can you do me, please?"

Zina began to tie up Christine's white corset. "Have you heard anything about that Scotsman, Baron McLeod, coming tonight?"

"Why?" Christine frowned. "You're not honestly thinking what I think you're thinking?"

"What?" Zina finished tying Christine corset and held out her dress to help her in. "He's rich, and I have expensive tastes. I could be good for him."

Christine rolled her eyes. "Honestly, Zina, you could do better than that."

"Better than a man who can afford to have six mistresses at once?"

"I thought it was five."

"That's not the point. Jesus, Katie, the man's a walking bank!"

"Do what you want." Christine looked at herself in the mirror. "Does my hair look alright?"

"Lovely." Zina looked at herself. Her red dress hugged her figure dangerously, showing off every bit of her seductive curves. "How do I look?"

"You'll give the man another heart attack if he sees you."

"You mean _when_ he sees me." Zina did a little twirl. "And if he's not interested, I'm sure I'll find someone who is."

"I'm sure you will."

_a/n And after all that time, a cliffhanger. Sorry, all! My shrink says writing this stuff is a good way to spend me-time, so hopefully I'll be writing more often. Keeps me sane, and all. Leave reviews, lots of lovely reviews!_


	8. Chapter 7

_a/n So tired..._

**CHAPTER 7**

Christine felt amazing. The concert could not have gone any better. It had gone off without a hitch, without even so much as a fainting spell, and Christine had had dozens of compliments on everything from her voice to her dress to her hair. Men were staring at her with want, and women with envy as she met beuracrats and their wives on Archie's arm. Lords and ladies were enchanted with her and Archie looked every part the man in love. He had not so much brought up Baron McLeod, but she had heard his name in the air more than once, and since she had no idea what he looked like, avoiding him was to impossible.

Taking another glass of champagne, Christine sipped on it while Archie talked business with Mr. Hartwell. Across the way, Zeke looked as if he was slowly getting drunk on the scotch. Grinning, Christine whispered in Archie's ear that she would be back. Downing the rest of her drink, Christine handed off the empty glass to another waiter and scampered over to Zeke, grabbing him by the wrist and proceeding to drag him onto the dance floor.

"You're having fun, then," he chuckled as Christine tripped a bit.

"I have two left feet," she said loftily.

Zeke laughed. "I'll believe that when I see it." He spun her around before pulling her in close and whispering, "So tell me—did you two do it yet tonight?"

Christine laughed. "Twice, actually." She glanced around before her mouth got away from her. "You haven't seen Baron McLeod around, have you?"

"Wouldn't know it if I had. Why?"

"I've lost Zina, and I'm suspicious that that's where she's gotten off to."

"Zina going for a rich man?"

"I know. A first, to be sure."

"Never going to happen again, eh?"

"Never." 

"She looks a bit like a harlot in that dress."

"You like harlots."

"That's what I mean. How does she expect me to keep my hands off her when she's dressed like that? It's amazing she hasn't fallen out of her dress yet."

Christine laughed. "I did up her corset for that exact reason."

At that moment, a bubbly laugh filled the air and they looked over to see Zina talking to a tall man. Christine could not see his face, as his back turned, but her suspicions were confirmed when Zina said, "You, Baron, are positively the funniest man I've ever met."

Christine let go of Zeke, turning him toward Zina, and whispering, "Go get your woman."

As Zeke marched over to the pair, Christine quickly snuck off up the stairs, not looking back. Another waiter passed her and she took another glass of champagne. She grabbed the young man by the arm. "Would you please inform Mr. Palmer that I am retiring for the evening?"

The waiter nodded, and Christine hurried away toward her room. Once inside, she finished her drink, putting the glass down with a small clink before looking at herself in the mirror. She could feel the alcohol sinking in, and her head spun a bit as a truly wicked idea came to her. Looking down at her expensive dress, she felt an urge that her drunken self could could not exist.

Thirty minutes later, a stuffed purse in hand and feeling invincible, Christine knocked on the door of the large house. A young girl poked her head out.

"We've not got any room, misses."

As she tried to shut the door on her, Christine stuck her foot in it. Smiling wickedly, she said, "Tell your mistress that _Claire_ is here to see her."

The girl frowned. "Are you a friend?"

"Oh, no." Christine shoved her way inside, looking around with haughty disdain. "Send her down, would you?" She dangled a five pound note in front of the girl, who took it greedily and scampered off, shouting for Adelia.

It was ironic, really, that she was wearing the same dress that Christine had met her in. It paled in comparison to the beauty of her ballgown, however, and Christine felt powerful as Adelia stared at her, her mouth hanging open slightly. "Where in God's name do you work, girl?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Christine swung her hips a bit as she walked over to the liquor cabinet, helping herself to some gin. She tossed a pound note on the floor as she took a swig. "For your hospitality." She smirked. "I'm seeing someone."

Adelia managed to shut her mouth. "Really?"

"Someone rich. Rich enough to buy this dump, I expect." She picked at the arm of the sofa, a bit of fabric coming loose under her beautifuly manicured fingernails. "I'd rather like to see it burned to the ground and you tossed out on the street." She drank the rest of the gin, pouring herself a bit more. "Where is Michelle?"

"She left." Adelia sat down, trying to puff herself up. "No idea where she went."

Christine stared at Adelia for a moment before saying, "I could turn this into a halfway house. You wouldn't be welcome, of course."

Adelia looked a bit nervous as she surveyed Christine's expensive dress and bulging purse. "You want to know where Michelle is?"

Christine rolled her eyes and placed her glass on the coffee table. "No, I came to catch up on old times. Yes, I want to know where Michelle is."

"She's workin' at a dress shop down near Soho square."

Christine tossed down twenty pounds. "For your services," she sneered. Stumbling from the room, she made her way to the door and relized as she exited that she was in no state to get home. She stumbled a bit, brushing hair from her face, and as she crossed the street, she vaguely wondered what odd part of her had thought it would be fun to put on a blonde stage wig. She made her way into the old hotel, checking herself into a room, and making her way up the dimly lit stairs.

She was almost to her floor when she ran straight into a man coming down them. The pair of them tumbled down the stairs and Christine burst out laughing. He was pulling up the hood of his cloak as he attempted to get to his feet, stumbling again. Christine laughed even harder, rolling on the floor of the landing. She fixed her wig before managing to get to her feet. She tripped again, but this time, the man caught her. She could smell alcohol on his breath, and the last thing she remembered was trying to see under his hood, but that it was fruitless...

\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-

The sun was bright on Erik McLeod's face, and he rolled over in bed with a grimace. He heard the door open and close again, heard George cross to his bed. Looking up, he saw his valet standing with a cup of coffee.

"Very strong, sir. How was the party?"

"I don't remember most of it," he muttered. "I'm never drinking again."

George chuckled. "That's a new one. I thought you gave up drinking and women."

"Who said anything about women?"

"No one had to." George looked as if he were trying very hard not to laugh. "I heard it from next door."

"Heard what?"

"You, sir."

Erik groaned. He couldn't remember lying with a woman. He could remember talking to that ballerina, though. "Was it a blonde?"

"Yes, sir."

"Looked like a dancer?"

"Yes, sir."

"Where is she now?"

"No idea." George crossed the room to close the gap in the drapes. "Probably left already. Thought I heard your door open early this morning."

"What time was it?"

"Oh, it was still dark, sir. Four, maybe."

"Jesus." Erik was going to have to remind himself to speak with Archie, who had seen to it to make sure that his glass was filled all night. His head felt as if it were going to explode. "She couldn't have been a whore?"

"No, sir. I had my eye on you for most of the night. You did not approach a single prostitute for the entire night."

"George?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Stop shouting."

"Yes, sir."

On the other side of London, Christine was awakened with a dreadful hangover and a knock on her door. An anxious Zina poked her head around the door. She exhaled heavily. "Tell me you feel as horrible as I do." 

"I feel as horrible as you do." Christine burried her face in her pillow, trying to recall the night before. She couldn't remember coming back to the opera house or anything at all from after seeing Adelia. Actually, she still felt a bit drunk. "Did you land that baron?"

"Don't know." Zina slumped into a chair. "I remember drinking too much. I remember Zeke trying to get me on my own, then nothing. Woke up this morning in my own bed, no idea where my corset is, and my dress looks like I went rolling in the mud."

"Did you?"

"I vaguely remember making love, but the awful thing is, I can't remember who I was with." She burried her face in her hands. "I hope it was Baron McLeod. Otherwise it was—"

"Don't tell me." Christine waved her hand vaguely. "I don't want to know."

"What did you do?"

"Can't remember. I don't even know how I got back here."

"Back?"

"I went to see... a friend."

Zina shook her head. "You should have seen Baron McLeod. He was so handsome. He—"

"I don't want to hear it, Zina, really." Christine burrowed down into her covers. "I just want to die."

"I'll let you sleep."

"Thank you."

She left, and Christine rolled onto her back, wincing. She was aching all over, in places she couldn't remember aching for ages. These specific aches told her that what she didn't remember was a one night fling with that man on the stairs, but she couldn't be sure.

Heaving a sigh, she climbed out of bed and dressed to go visit Acrhie and eat breakfast.

_a/n Sorry it's so short, but I'm trying to transition a bit._


	9. Chapter 8

_a/n Sorry if that last bit seemed pointlessless and short and/or didn't make sense. It's partly that way because I had a hard time doing it any other way, and partly because I'm a bit of a mess right now, so any distraction from reality is welcome. I have about three good things in my life right now, so I like to get away from the rest of the bad stuff. This is my vacation. Feel free to read it._

**CHAPTER 8**

Dinner with a dinner one hardly knew was always uncomfortable. Dinner with someone you weren't sure if you had engaged in sexually deviant behaviors with was even more uncomfortable.

Erik was coming to be certain that it was this girl that he had taken home last night. She was the last face he could clearly remember seeing, and he thought he could remember kissing her. She was certainly nice enough, although he had a suspicion that she was after him more for money than anything else. He was trying to sway her toward something less sexual and more meaningful. Forcing himself out of his thoughts, Erik brought himself back to the current conversation, which was about shoes.

"I mean, it didn't matter how long I wore them, they just never broke in." Zinaida Belogorov paused momentarily to sip her wine. "I had blisters for weeks!" She put her glass back down and studied him for a moment. "You're very quiet, aren't you?"

Erik cleared his throat and took a drink of water. "I have a great deal on my mind," he said, pointedly.

Zina flushed. "Yes." She looked down at her plate, fidgeting with her salad. "I don't normally drink that much."

"I've given it up. Last night was a relapse."

She smiled. She had a lovely smile. "How long are you to stay in London?"

"I really only came to meet Archie's girl," he said. "Katrin, I believe her name is."

"Oh, yes. She... mentioned you."

"Really?"

Zina blushed even darker. "Never mind." She picked up her wine glass, glanced up at him, and set it back down before staring at it for a moment. Then, she reached over for her water and sipped on it, instead. "It's a shame you missed the concert. Do you not enjoy opera?"

"Not here so much." He took a bite of his steak, chewing thoughtfully as he thought. "I'm Scottish by birth, but I spent a great many years living in Paris."

At the mention of the city of lights, Zina's face lit up. "Paris!" She clapped her hands together. "Oh, I've always wanted to see their house. I've heard it's beautiful. Nothing compared to Moscow, though." She waved her hand dismissively and took another bite of her salad.

Her mention of Moscow had peaked his interest. "You're from Moscow?"

Glancing up, she smiled cheekily. "I trained at the opera there. That, sir, is why I am the _prima_ ballerina. Not the second." She winked, and returned to her salad.

"Do you miss it?"

She seemed to think for a moment. "I don't miss the cold," she said thoughtfully. Then she screwed up her face. "I certainly don't miss the tsar." She rolled her eyes upward, shaking her head as if she were annoyed just by the thought of the Russian ruler. "I certainly don't miss performing for him."

Erik choked a bit. "You performed for the tsar?"

"As part of the Russian ballet, yes."

"You mean, when the tsar came to Moscow—"

"He would come to the opera to see the ballet." She shook her head. "What kind of man builds churches when people try to kill him? It's as if he's finally feeling sorry for the bastard children he keeps pumping out."

Erik nearly spat out his water—he hadn't laughed so hard in a long time. When he had managed to calm down, he looked back at Zina, who was smiling, apparently pleased that he was so amused. "Is there anything you _do_ miss about Russia?"

She smiled, looking off into blank space as her memory went to work. "I miss the buildings. Everything here is so square. I miss looking at churches and being awed by their beauty, by the domes. I think, though, that I miss the river most of all." She shook her head slightly. "It was another time," she mused. "Another place. I was happy there."

"Why come here?"

"I suppose I thought I'd be happier here. Away from people and politics." A slightly sad look was in her eyes, and Erik found himself wondering what people in particular had driven her away from a place she had loved so much. He questioned her about it, and she smiled, a sad smile to match her eyes.

"There's a reason I don't like to attach myself to men." Zina's voice was soft and she bowed her head slightly, although she couldn't hide the tear that trickled down her cheek. Reaching into his breast pocket, Erik pulled out a handkerchief and handed it to her as discretely as he could. She dabbed her eyes and forced a slightly shaky laugh. "I'm sorry," she said, pulling a mirror from her purse to check her makeup. "You must think me a fool."

He smiled as kindly as he could. "Not at all, my dear. On the contrary—you speak to a kindred spirit."

Looking up, Erik could see a small level of disbelief written on Zina's pretty face. "What woman could break your heart?"

Returning her mile, he said, "It was another time, and another place, and I was happy there."

Zina sniffled slightly. "Is that why you left Paris?"

"You're smart."

"It has been suggested before, yes."

They fell into a comfortable silence as they finished their meals, although there was something she had said that weighed on Erik's mind. _There's a reason I don't like to attach myself to men..._

Erik was done with having mistresses, but he found himself lately missing the company of a woman. Zina was attractive, smart, and shared some of the same interests as he. He found himself wondering, as he stared at her, if she could be swayed. Perhaps, as he was one who had been in her place before, they could be different. He wasn't sure what would come of an attachment between them, but he felt that, even if he never grew to love her and she, him, perhaps they could be like Archie and his girl—together with a bond of friendship and fondness.

Later, as they rode back to the opera house, Erik's mind was still on the topic of trying to carry on a relationship of some sort with Zina. He was almost certain, at this point, that they had made love that night, and, according to George, it had sounded as if he had been enjoying himself.

The carriage jerked to a stop and Erik climbed out to help her down. She smiled up at him. "I enjoyed myself, Baron."

He raised her gloved hand to his lips. "You may call me Erik."

"And you may call me Zina."

"I would like to see you again, the next time I'm in town."

She smiled radiantly. "I would like that very much."

He pressed a gentle kiss to her fingers. When he looked at her, she was still smiling at him, and he could not resist the urge to take her in and place an even softer kiss on her full lips. She kissed him back, tenderly, and he was lost for a moment, before she pulled away, still smiling.

"Until we meet again, then, Erik." Then she waved and disappeared inside.

He did not realize until much later that she had not mentioned his mask all night.

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Dinner was an amusing affair for Archie that night, and a painful one for Christine. He had been endlessly amused and had had a hearty laugh at her expense when she had recounted the tale of her drunken exploit from the night before. He seemed to have a hard time figuring out which was funniest—the fact that she had gone to Adelia's, that she _might_ have had sex, that she had woken up in a blond wig, or the fact that she had been as drunk as she had been. He was also amused that she had threatened Adelia with foreclosure.

"I should buy that place," he said, stretching lazily. "It would be a good investment."

Christine raised her eyebrows as she peered at him over the rim of her glass. "You want to be a pimp?"

"No." He yawned. "I could turn it into a bed and breakfast."

Christine laughed outright. "Of course you could, dear." She smiled and thanked the maid as her plate was cleared from the table in front of her. "Will you be entertaining Michael tonight?" Michael was a boy in the city Archie had been sleeping with recently.

Archie heaved a sigh. "No. I don't think he's interested anymore. Found someone with more money, I heard."

"How do you hear these things?"

"I just do. People let things slip when they've had a few to drink." He stared across at Christine, his eyes sightly sad. "Will you stay with me tonight?"

It was something Archie often asked her when he was feeling lonely. The pair of them would climb into bed, curl up together, and merely take pleasure in the feel of a warm body on the other side of the bed. Tonight, Christine needed his company more than ever.

She smiled over at him. "Of course I will, darling."

Thirty minutes later, Christine was in an immaculate cotton night gown, curled up next to Archie, her face several inches from his. She found, though, that she couldn't sleep.

"Archie?" she whispered.

He grunted in reply.

"Are you awake?"

Another grunt.

"What if I can never fall in love again?"

Archie's eyes opened at this. Reaching down, he found her hand. "Don't talk that way," he murmured. "You'll find some man that'll whisk you off your little feet and carry you off to a castle somewhere in the highlands." 

For some odd reason, tears stung her eyes. "But what if I don't?"

He stroked her curls away from her face and smiled sleepily at her. "If you don't, I assure you—I won't be going anywhere anytime soon."

"People would expect us to get married."

He heaved a sigh. "Then we'd get married. It's not as if I'm going to find some woman I love. And if I am forced to produce an heir with anyone, I suppose I could manage with you." He winked, and she smiled. "Anyway, I don't mind you being around—I've grown used to having you here for dinner every night. And if you do find a man, I expect you to remain my friend." Putting a mock-stern look on his face, he wagged a joking finger at her before smiling again and placing a kiss on her forehead. "I love you, you know. Not like a lover or as a husband, but as a companion."

She smiled back. "I love you, too."

They grew quiet, still holding hands, and she was almost asleep when Archie's stomach rumbled. There was silence for a moment before they both broke into giggles.

"You just had dinner!"

"Maybe it's just digestion."

"You mean indigestion."

"Yes, dear. I'm too tired to differentiate clearly."

She kicked him lightly under the covers, and he recoiled. "Your feet are freezing!"

"Oh, really?" She laughed as she put her feet against his again and he complained. "I suppose I'm cold blooded, then?"

"Never you, darling." She should have kept her mouth shut—she knew what was coming before her brain even had time to register it. "I'm not the one who gets drunk and can't remember if I've had a midnight rendezvous with a stranger."

"Shut up!" Burying her face in the pillows, Christine pulled the covers over her head and pretended to ignore him as he teased her. Eventually, he stopped and pulled the blankets down enough to see her face.

"I love you, Christine."

She closed her eyes, loving to hear the sound of her name. "I love you, too."

Then there was only the sound of his breathing, and she was lulled off to sleep by it in a matter of minutes.

_a/n I've got lots more spare time than usual right now—I'm at the beginning of the semester and the shit storm hasn't had time to unleash yet._

_Keep reading and leave reviews!_


	10. Chapter 9

_a/n Remember that shit storm I mentioned? It came bearing snow and rain and thunder (yes, snow and thunder at the same time)._

_a/n 2 Okay. I need to say something before you read on. I'm halfway through writing part of this chapter, and I feel like you should know that there is sexiness ahead. I know when I say that, it's usually fairly mild, but this is the heaviest scene I've ever written. Ever. I'm not allowed to have sex for two weeks, so I'm taking it out on the characters._

_Enjoy..._

CHAPTER 9

It was a slow day in the shop. It was too hot out in the July afternoon sun to do any shopping, so Michelle supposed most of their usual customers were sitting at home, cooling themselves in the shade and sipping lemonade. She wished she could be with them, but she would settle for fanning herself by the open window that led into the cool ally behind the store.

Just as she was hoping there wouldn't be any customers so that she could go home, the telltale tinkle at the front of the shop sounded and, groaning, made her way to the front. Mrs. Mulligan, the shop owner, was already up front, chattering away to a girl with long, blond hair. Dropping inconspicuously to her knees, Michelle looked at a small piece of paper tacked behind the counter. _Belogorov, Belogorov... Where is she?_

Glancing at the measurements written beside the name _Zinaida Belogorov_, Michelle popped back up. "35-24-34?" she asked.

Zina looked over at Michelle and smiled brilliantly. "How do you always remember that?"

Michelle smiled. "It's what we pride ourselves on."

"And our Michelle is one of the best girls here!" Mrs. Mulligan smiled at Michelle. "Would you care to bring out some of our best day dresses?"

Michelle nodded. She walked to the back of the shop and studied the ready-to-wear dresses there, remembering that these were usually what Zina preferred. She was contemplating a blue and white stripped dress or a yellow dress when she heard the door again. Pulling both dresses, she stepped out of the back room and headed up front. She could hear a man's voice, deep and soothing, and very familiar, and her heartbeat quickened. Stopping short of being seen, she poked her head out just far enough to be seen.

There was Erik, arm in arm with Zina Belogorov, smiling and chatting away with Mrs. Mulligan. Zina was leaning against him slightly, looking up at him as he talked. He looked relaxed, and he laughed heartily when Zina teased him about his current state of dress, which was more informal than Michelle had ever seen him dressed. She wondered vaguely what they were doing together—why wasn't he with Christine?

Coming back around, Michelle put a smile on her face as she put on her acting shoes. "Here we are! They're both light and cool, so you shouldn't overheat in them." She could feel Erik's eyes boaring into her as she answered Zina's questions.

"I'm just going to pop in back, darling, try these on." Zina smiled and followed Mrs. Mulligan into the back. As soon as they were gone, Erik started in.

"What are you doing here?" he whispered frantically.

"I work here," she whispered back. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm with her."

"Why on earth are you out with Zina Belogorov buying dresses?"

"I'm buying it _for_ her—I had to be here."

Michelle raised her eyebrows. "You're buying her dresses?"

Erik frowned. "Why wouldn't I?"

"Are you courting her?"

Erik sighed. "To an extent, yes. She keeps me company. I can't see myself marrying her, but she is a joy to spend time with. She's so full of life and energy all the time." He smiled slightly. "I enjoy her, and she enjoys me."

Michelle knew she didn't have much time. She had not seen or heard from Christine since leaving Adelia's, so she wasn't sure Erik even knew she was in town. "Are you happy?" she asked softly.

Erik frowned. "What do you mean?"

Michelle glanced back toward the dressing room briefly before she said quietly, "You don't think you could be happier with someone else?"

Erik's eyes widened. "You—you're not—"

He wasn't even thinking of Christine. He thought she was talking about herself. She shook her head. "No. I'm just being silly."

"Darling!" Zina popped in, posing in the yellow dress.

Immediately, Michelle stepped over to her. "I was just telling your friend here how lovely you always look in yellow." She smiled up at Zina as she checked the hem. "It's such a difficult color to wear."

"Really?" Zina didn't seem to have noticed anything odd. She swayed a bit, looking in the mirror. "I love it!" She turned to Erik, who rolled his eyes as she gave a small pout. As he reached for his money, Zina squealed with delight and clapped her hands together.

Hopping down from her stool, Zina went to remove the dress so that Mrs. Mulligan could hem it. Erik and Michelle were left alone again.

Erik cleared his throat. "I suppose I should pay..."

Michelle wasn't thinking as she stepped behind the counter and took the money from Erik. Then, before she could stop it, her mind flashed back to the last time he had given her money...

_The morning sun was bright on Michelle's face when she awoke. She was still sore from their escapades the night before, and she sat up, rubbing her eyes. Erik was nowhere to be seen, but there was a plate of fruit and a glass of water sitting on a nearby table._

_Michelle dressed in the clothes she had worn upon arriving the previous night before she sat down at the table. She was finishing up an orange when she heard the door open behind her. Turning, her eyes found Erik's and she smiled at him. He gave her a small smile in return and sat down across from her. He was halfway through the morning paper and she was working on her second orange when he suddenly asked, "Will you be alright?"_

_Looking up, Michelle couldn't think for a minute what he was speaking of. The she realized. "Oh." She nodded, sucking on a piece of fruit. "That was my last night. I'm packed. I'm going to look for a flat—get a real job."_

"_Speaking of jobs..." Erik trailed off, looking awkward. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulled out a thick envelope. "There's some extra in there."_

_Michelle opened it and her eyes bulged. "Erik, I couldn't possibly—"_

_He waved a hand. "I just want to know that you're safe."_

"_I will be," she said softly. "Thank you." Standing up, she popped the last bit of orange in her mouth. "I should get going."_

_She was halfway out the door when Erik called her name. "Here," he said softly, handing her a slip of paper. She looked down—there was the name of a man, and an address. "A business associate of mine," he explained. "Just tell him you're an old friend of mine from Paris and give him this." He handed her an envelope. "He and his wife are quite hospitable. They'll take you in until you find somewhere to stay. Jules does owe me a favor or two." He chuckled, but then he turned serious. "You take care of yourself," he said firmly. "If anything goes wrong, you can go to any good building firm in town—they'll know how to find me."_

_Michelle smiled gently up at him before leaning up to kiss his cheek. "Thank you for everything, Erik."_

_He smiled back. "Be good."_

"_Never."_

_And then, she was gone._

Michelle snapped back and put the money quickly in the register, handing Erik his change. "Here."

"I never got to ask if Jules was good to you."

"He was wonderful." She closed the register, looking back to see if Zina was coming. "I couldn't figure out where I knew him from, then he said he used to work for you in Paris. I remembered him hanging around Madame Giry at the opera house." A new thought suddenly occurred to Michelle. "Have you heard from her at all? Madame Giry, I mean."

Erik smiled. "I wondered if you'd ever ask about her. She's doing well. Opened a small studio for dance, although from the sound of it, it won't be small for long."

"Of course not, with all the talent she still has to offer. Has she written about Meg at all?"

"Married."

"Really?"

"Three years ago. Already has a boy, now they're having another. I'm waiting to hear what it is—she should have had it by now, come to think of it."

Michelle sighed heavily. "Do you have their address? I'd like to write her—I need to get in touch with Meg about... Well, it's personal."

Erik's eyes softened. "Ah. What was his name?"

"Name." She looked down, fidgeting with her fingers. "He went off to fight... somewhere, God knows where. I promised I'd write him once I'd settled down, but that was four years ago. I'm sort of wondering if Meg would be able to find him."

"I'm sure she will. If there's one thing Meg is good at, it's listening to gossip—I'm sure those ears of hers will pick something up."

Michelle laughed, and Zina chose that moment to enter. She looked at the pair of them laughing for a moment, seeming a bit confused and a bit annoyed. Erik took her arm, pulling her close and planting a kiss on her temple. "I'll be sure to sent Meg's address over—I think I've got it somewhere. If not, I shall simply have to send you Madam's, and you will have to tell her all about how you've given up dance."

Another laugh escaped Michelle's lips before she could stop it. Looking a bit sheepish, she smiled apologetically at Zina before saying, "I've gained too much weight since then. And I'm out of shape. It's been seven years, after all."

"I'm sorry." Zina seemed to be trying to catch up. "Do you two know each other?"

"I knew Michelle back in Paris."

"Ah." The other woman's face relaxed and she smiled at Michelle. "I suppose I should have guessed that—I never put much thought into your accent. I'm horrible at guessing accents, in any case." She smiled up at Erik. "Are you ready to go?"

He nodded, and tipped his hat at Michelle. "It was good to see you."

"You, too."

The door jingled and he was gone, leaving Michelle with a dress to hem and many thoughts racing though her mind.

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The pounding on the door was what woke Christine, but she tried her best to ignore it. It didn't go away, so she finally got out of bed and answered it. Archie stood in her door frame with a smile. "Are you ready to go?"

Dinner. She had forgotten. "I just need to get dressed." She rubbed her eyes and let Archie in.

"Are you alright?"

Christine nodded. "I feel like I can't get enough sleep."

"There's something going around, that's for certain." Archie waved a dismissive hand. "Nothing worse than a cold in July."

Christine smiled. "Would you mind horribly if we stayed in?"

He smiled back, brushing a stray hair from her face. "You come over to my house and I'll have the cook make you some wonderful chicken soup. How does that sound?"

An hour and a half later, Christine was at Archie's, lying in bed, eating soup. It tasted a bit different than usual, but Christine attributed that to the fact that she was so exhausted. She had just put the bowl down when Archie entered the room again, this time with a glass of water.

"Drink up," he said. "You need to keep hydrated."

Christine downed half the water before handing it back to Archie. She snuggled down beneath the silk sheets while Archie went to open a window. A cool breeze blew in from outside and Christine was very comfortable and cozy as she drifted off again.

Hours later, she awoke from a dream that left her shaken. In her dream, she had been in bed with someone. He had been caressing her and whispering sweet nothings in her ear. The voice had sounded so familiar, but she couldn't place it with a name or even a face. She could still feel his hands on her skin...

She rolled over in bed, trying to fall asleep again, but it was pointless. She exhaled harshly, flopping onto her back. She tossed and turned for a while, unable to sleep due to the fact that, every time she closed her eyes, she could hear him, feel his hands on her, feel...

Becoming annoyed, Christine looked over at the door. It was closed and latched. No one would come in, she was sure—it had to be past midnight, and she knew Archie was usually in bed around eleven. She surrendered to her thoughts as her hands wandered over her own body, almost of their own accord. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, she closed her eyes again and let herself remember back to a time before she had come to London, back in Paris, when a man of such sensuality had loved her so deeply, it had frightened her. She thought of the things she had once thought of to escape from the truth of her reality with Andrew, things that still made her head spin and her body shake...

Pushing her face against her pillow, Christine cried out as she let go of what she had been holding back for so long. She shook and convulsed for what felt like an eternity before her body finally relaxed. Exhausted, Christine sighed again, although this was in a better humor, before she rolled over and closed her eyes.

She fell asleep and dreamed...

_There was no light in the room. Her companion seemed to have been gone for some time, having only just returned. Normally, she would have wanted to turn up the lights and talk to him, but tonight, she could care less. She couldn't remember the last time she had lain with a man and received pleasure, and this man's kisses promised her that pleasure that she so missed._

_Their clothes slowly melted off, and in the darkness, Christine found that she could hide the physical scars of her past, making the emotional ones easier to ignore, as well. She felt his lips on her breast, tugging at the skin there. She moaned, feeling her head fall back as she laced her fingers into his hair. They stumbled drunkenly toward the bed, falling onto it. He landed on top of her, and the feel of his weight on her was sinfully delicious. She pressed her bare chest against his, moaning as one of his hands made its way between them to rest at the place where her legs joined the rest of her. Her knees fell apart as he touched her. A moan escaped her mouth as he continued caressing her, his other hand working at her breast, and his mouth giving kisses and little bites to her neck. She frowned when his hand left her, but she very nearly screamed when he replaced it with his mouth. Never in her life had she felt anything like this—the thought alone of performing this act on Christine would have sickened Raoul, bu this man seemed to enjoy giving her pleasure. She felt him moan softly as his tongue flicked against the most sensitive part of her. The ache that had been building inside of her became stronger as he slid two fingers inside of her, thrusting them in and out as his mouth worked above them. In an instant, the landslide began and Christine was nearly screaming as she came._

_He kissed his way up her body, stopping to give attention to her breasts before continuing to her mouth. Reaching down, he pulled her legs up around his waist and pulled her up until she was on her back and he, on his knees. Slowly, inch by glorious inch, he slid his body inside hers. She had never felt more filled by a man than she did at that moment, as if their bodies had been made for one another alone._

_For a good minute or so, neither of them moved—they simply enjoyed the feeling of connection. Then, he began to move slowly in and out of her. Whatever he was doing felt amazing, and she felt him brush up against a place inside her she had never felt before. There was so much pressure, it was almost unbearable. He seemed to know exactly what he was doing and where he was hitting, as he sped up a bit and pressed his hand against her pelvis. The pressure increased and immediately, she was taken again by the waves of pleasure that he was so willing to begin._

_She felt him shaking, heard his crying out, as he came with her. His thrusts were more powerful than they had been before he released into her, collapsing on top of her. After a few minutes, he rolled off to the side, and he pulled her close. He played with her hair for a moment before asking, "Is this your real hair?"_

_She had forgotten the wig. Laughing, she pulled it off so that he could play with her curls. They lay together in silence for a while before he asked, "What is your name?"_

"_Katie," she said softly, wanting to say her real name, but not sure why she couldn't. She was about to ask his when there was a knock on the door._

"_Sir?" A man's voice was calling through. "Are you alright?"_

"_Fine, George."_

_There was a pause. "You're sure?"_

"_Go away."_

"_Goodnight, then, sir." There was a teasing tone in George's voice, and Christine heard a door close, and a voice next door say, "Sounds like Baron McLeod is having fun."_

"_He's alright?" a woman's voice asked._

_Christine had stopped listening. Even in her drunken state, she remembered her promise not to so much look at McLeod. Now she was in his bed..._

"_I have to go," she said, sitting up. She stumbled in the dark, trying to find her clothes. She threw the wig back on and was jumping into her dress when the flash of a match lit up the room a bit. Christine was too embarrassed to look at him, and she stumbled, still drunk, toward the door, hearing him call after her to come back. She heard him tripping over furniture and calling for George as she fled out the door and hastened down the long hall toward the stairs._

_She was almost around the corner when she heard George's door open. "Wait!"_

_She glanced back, fleetingly. The man she assumed was George was buttoning up a shirt. A pair of shoes were tossed into the hallway after him just before Christine turned and fled down the stairs. She tripped again on the way out of the hotel, throwing her hand out to catch herself. A passing cabbie pulled over, asking if she needed assistance. She pulled herself inside and, after giving him a destination, fell asleep against the side of the carriage..._

_The carriage stopped and she stepped out. Archie was standing on his head at the front of the opera house, waiting for her with a bottle of champagne. "Let's watch the cows."_

"_Cows?"_

_Suddenly, there were cows thundering down the street behind her. She turned. "Oh! Those cows!" She reached for the champagne and popped the cork into the stampede. She and Archie sipped their drinks while they watched first cows, then sheep, then a number of purple birds parade through Covent Garden..._

Christine awoke from a dead sleep to Archie's voice. "Christine? Can I come in?"

She looked out the window to see a gloomy, rainy morning. "Yes," she called, reaching over for a dressing gown and pulling it on as she climbed out of bed.

Archie poked his head in. "Did I wake you?"

She nodded. "It's alright."

"Have any good dreams?" he asked, setting a tray of porridge and toast in front of her.

Frowning, Christine sipped the water that was on the tray. "I had one, but all I can remember of it was watching animals in Covent Garden."

"Animals?"

She laughed, realizing how silly her dream had been. "They were stampeding down the street." She took a bite of porridge, trying to remember what had led up to her being at the opera house. It had been something good—she couldn't remember what, though. Shaking her head, Christine went back to breakfast. It was just a dream, after all. Nothing important...

_a/n I'm twisted and evil, I know. May seem pointless, but if you pay attention to details, you may notice a few things. This chapter is dedicated to Busanda. You're a smart cookie, B. See if you can figure out what's up. I have faith._

_R/R, all! Hope you enjoyed my nastiness._


	11. Chapter 10

_a/n You like that? Huh? You want some more? Yeah? Well, here you go!_

CHAPTER 10

George Flaherty had always been a sensible man, and one who seemed seemingly indestructible. He had always owed this to his upbringing. His birth had come as a shock to his parents, who had thought themselves too old to have anymore children. Of seven children before him, five of them had died in the famine that had ended only two years before. After losing two children to cholera already, his parents had been terrified when, at seven, he came down with the disease. Somehow, and nobody was sure exactly how, he had managed to pull out of the disease. The doctors said he would likely be small when he grew up, but at sixteen he was as strapping a boy as could be found. Nothing seemed to stop him, not even being run over by a carriage two years before. George had learned that nothing was to be feared that he knew he could overcome. No one had been surprised, therefore, that the strange man who had arrived at their house during a storm one night had not scared George in the least.

George had immediately been drawn to Baron McLeod, not because of the mask on his face, but because of the aura of power and confidence he gave off. He was also very wise, and a wonderful story teller. McLeod had been in town on business for only a week, but by the end, George had found himself a job as the personal valet for Erik McLeod.

He had quickly realized that McLeod was not a man to be reckoned with. He could be quite the brute, and often lost his temper. Things were to be done his way or not at all, and he often, in those earlier days, yelled at George if George did something to displease him. Soon, though, Erik seemed to give up on trying to frighten George, for he was finding that the new valet was as tough as his feisty little maid, who had joined his staff just before George.

Then there were the women. George could remember every one of them by name, face, and title, if there was one. All of them beautiful, most of them rich, and some of them thinking that somehow, this notorious womanizer would want to settle down with them. Those were the ones that stuck out the most in George's mind.

Zinaida Belogorov was not his type.

It wasn't even so much that she wasn't his type, she just wasn't exactly what George remembered. True, he had been slightly drunk. With Erik gone, he and Abby had gotten hold of several bottles of wine and were almost through the second one and their third session of love making when they had heard thumps and what sounded like a woman's giggles coming from the adjoining room. George had briefly gone to check on the Baron at Abby's insistence, then, reassured that he was simply having sex and not dying of alcohol poisoning, gone back to his room to pick up where he had left off with Abby.

It was some time later, while Abby was curled next to him in his arms, that he had heard a door slam and Erik shout for him. Still drunk, George had scrambled out of bed and tried to pull on clothes as quickly as he could. Outside, in the hallway, he had briefly glimpsed a woman darting around the corner. She had had blond hair, that much he was certain of. He wasn't sure, though, that her eyes had been the bright blue that Zina's were. He felt he certainly would have noticed. She had eyes unlike anyone he had ever seen. They were icy blue and so bright, even in the morning, when she would come down for coffee, still rubbing sleep from them. Additionally, Zina's height gave George a run for his money. He was just over six feet and stood tall and sturdy, but he was certain of two things—Zina had to be almost six feet tall, and he felt that the woman jetting from the hotel room that night had been dwarfed by his size. She had moved exactly like Zina, though—like a woman who had been dancing for years—which was the only reason he doubted his assumptions that Zina had not been the woman in Erik's room that night.

Now, as George watched them walking together in the garden, a small frown crossed his face. He certainly seemed to enjoy her company much more than any other woman he had seen him with. They were the perfect companions, not set on marriage but merely keeping each other company and enjoying a good, healthy romp every few nights. They shared a great deal in common—a love for opera and traveling, a dislike for Russian government and politics in general, and a passion for passion. Already, Erik was planning to take Zina with him to Venice on a business trip.

George heaved a sigh as he turned and walked back into the house. It was stupid, he knew—God knew that Abby told him every day. Still, he felt almost as if he owed it to his employer to tell him that the first time he remembered kissing Zina Belogorov was very likely the first time he had ever kissed Zina Belogorov.

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Zina folded her fingers in her lap and listened as Erik rambled on about Venice, a place she had never been and one she was keen on going. To be honest, she was keen to go anywhere on her upcoming break, as long as it was away from Zeke, who seemed to be trying to get her on her own more than usual lately. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the valet, George, looking down at them with a thoughtful look on his face. The look gradually turned into a frown and, oblivious to Zina's attention, he turned, still frowning thoughtfully, and walked back in the house.

"I don't think your valet likes me," she said bluntly, interrupting Erik's tirade.

He stopped mid sentence and gave her a perculiar look. "Pardon?"

"George. He just stares at me like he's trying to read my mind. I really don't think he likes me."

"That's nonsense." Erik slid a bit closer to her on the stone bench. "What reason does he have not to like you?"

Zina shrugged. "That's why I don't understand why he keeps frowning every time he looks at me."

"He doesn't always frown at you."

"Not always," she said. "Not when he's paying attention."

Erik shook his head and pulled her to his side. "Why do you care what George thinks of you?" he asked. He pressed his lips to the soft skin at the back of her ear and her eyes closed as she felt butterflies in her belly. "_I_ like you. Very much."

"Do you, now?" Her mouth curled into a coy smile.

"I do. And right now, I want you very much." His teeth caught at her earlobe, and she moaned, leaning into his broad chest. His lips began a slow journey down her neck, nipping at the sensitive skin here and there, and it wasn't long before she was panting and gasping for air.

It was only when he began to tug at the back of her dress that she remembered where they were. "Erik, someone will see."

"No one will see," he murmured, his voice muffled against her back. "And if they do, they know better than to say anything. Besides, it's getting dark."

Zina tried her hardest to argue, but she was losing the battle with every button that came undone. It wasn't long until the bodice of her dress was around her waist and Erik was pressing kisses against her bare shoulders as he untied her corset.

She couldn't believe that she was letting him make love to her outside. It was amazing to look up at the sky and see the stars while he moved slowly in and out of her. She cried out when she reached her climax, feeling him shudder over her as he joined her.

Later, in bed, she lay on her side, watching him sleep. He looked gentler with his hair across his face and his eyes closed. Not for the first time, she pondered the mask on his face. She wasn't sure what it his, but she was quite certain that, whatever it was, if he hid it from the world, he was more than likely not inclined to talk about it. She had never pushed the subject, only briefly commenting from time to time when he wore a different one than the usual white porcelain during the day. At night, he wore a black mask, softer in texture, that was almost invisible when he slept on that side of his face.

Sighing softly, she reached out to toy with his hair. Mask or no mask, she still enjoyed his company. She knew that she would never marry him—he wasn't the type of man she wanted to marry—but he was good company in the meantime.

Rolling over, she pulled his arm over her waist, feeling him pull her a bit closer, spooning around her, and she fell asleep.

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Christine needed Zina to come back to the world of the working class opera singers as soon as was humanly possible. She understood her friend's need for Baron McLeod perfectly, but she wasn't sure how much longer she could handle Zeke on her own. Every time she thought she was about to get a moment's peace, there he was, asking questions about how she thought Zina felt about him.

Today, he was particularly exasperating. Zina had been in Scotland for the past week with the Baron, and this seemed to truly annoy Zeke, who seemed to have taken to looking at Zina as a lover would. She knew Zeke had always liked Zina, but this was almost too much. It seemed never ending.

"She looks at you the same way she looks at Armando."

"A source of income on the side?"

"No, as a colleague and friend."

Zeke frowned. "I think there's more than that."

Christine sighed heavily. "Zeke, she's been seeing that Baron for the last... what, three weeks?"

"At least month and a half, probably longer—don't try to make me feel better." He crossed his arms over his chest, still frowning. "I don't know what he has that I don't have. I mean, did you see him?"

"No. Well, just his back."

"I could take him."

Eyebrows raised, she said, "Pardon?"

"You know, in a fight. I could, you know."

"I'm sure," she replied dryly. Yawning, Christine gave him a small wave. "I'm going to go take a nap."

"Again?" The annoyed look on his face faded into one of concern. "You slept for two hours this morning."

She shrugged. "I guess I'm just worn out from all the work."

"Do you want me to walk with you?"

He looked so sincerely concerned that Christine could not refuse. She smiled. "That would be nice."

They walked in silence for several moments before he said suddenly, "Maybe it's just the mystery."

Christine frowned. "What is?"

"Why she likes him so much." Zeke heaved a sigh. "My own fault, I suppose."

"What?"

"I should have told her," he said absently, not following Christine. "Let her get away, though."

"Zeke, you never had her to begin with."

"Yes, I did!" He ran a hand through his hair frustrated. "At the ball!"

"No," she said slowly, "she went with Baron McLeod."

"No, he left and went back to his hotel and she went to go to bed." His face turned pink. "I followed her. It seemed like a good idea at the time."

Christine stopped walking. "She didn't go to the hotel with him?"

"No." Zeke stopped a little forward of her, and turned around to stare at her. "Is that what she thought?"

"Well..." She bit her lip.

"Katie, you can't not tell me." He stepped closer to her. "What did she say?"

"Well, I guess she was the last person he could remember talking to, and the same went for her, and they both knew they had slept with someone the night before and he remembered someone blond." She rubbed her forehead, trying to wrap her brain around the idea of Zina and Zeke in the throws of passion. "Are you sure it was her?"

"Positive. I walked her back to her room afterward. I remember because you were just coming back. You said something about a woman named Adelia and getting laid."

Christine covered her mouth with her hand. "I wouldn't have..." She felt a bit dizzy. "What?"

"That's what you said. I didn't say anything the next day because I didn't want to embarrass you."

"What time was it?"

"I don't know, five or so?"

_Five in the morning... Where had she gone until five in the morning?_

Everything was spinning and there were black spots in front of her eyes. She felt Zeke's hand on her arm...

Opening her eyes, Christine looked around. Zeke and Zina were standing over her, looking worried. She blinked blearily and tried to sit up. A voice behind her said, "Easy there, miss. That was quite a tumble you took just now."

Turning, her eyes met with a blue-gray and she was disorientated for a moment before her eyes adjusted and she saw dark red hair. A man was standing just behind her, smiling down at her. Zina spoke first.

"Katie, this is George. He's Baron McLeod's valet."

"It's nice to meet you, Katie," George said. "I hope you don't mind, but I took the liberty to call a doctor."

Christine closed her eyes briefly. She still felt so strange. "That's fine."

"Do you feel alright, Katie?"

Christine's foggy brain wasn't entirely registering "Katie" at that moment, and the word that came from her mouth next was one that hadn't rolled off of her tongue in front of anyone but Archie in ages. "Christine," she muttered.

"What?" It was Zeke.

"Don't call me Katie."

"Call you what?" It was Zina this time. She sounded worried as she addressed George. "When do you think the doctor will be here?"

Christine didn't hear his response. She was asleep again.

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The doctor was examining the young woman and the three of them all felt obligated to stay in the room. Zinaida seemed to be extremely anxious, and the other man, Zeke he thought his name was, was pacing, a frown etched across his face.

"What happened just before she collapsed?" the doctor asked, glancing back at Zeke.

"We were just walking back to her room. She said she wanted to take another nap, and she's been sleeping a lot lately, so I wanted to make sure she was alright. We were talking about..." He trailed off, glancing at Zina.

She frowned. "For God's sake, Zeke, can't you just leave the poor girl alone?"

The doctor looked sharply at Zeke. "What did you say to her?"

"I was just talking about something that happened a while back—"

"That you're jealous about and won't let go!" George had never seen Zina angry, and he wasn't sure he wanted to see it again.

"I was telling her the truth!" he burst out. "That you weren't even with McLeod that night!"

"Oh? Where was I then, if you have all the answers?"

"You were with me!"

There was an awkward silence that followed this announcement. Not sure what to say and not wanting to stare, George looked back at the girl on the couch. He was trying to remember where he had seen her before when Zeke began to speak slowly.

"I remember, because I was coming back from taking you back to your room and I went by Katie. She said she'd been off with some man and something about Adelia."

Something clicked. George turned. "What did you just say?"

"I don't know, she must have met up with some man—"

"After that." He snapped his fingers, forcing his brain to think.

"Something about someone named Adelia."

_Adelia Lewis._ She had been one of Adelia's girls. He recognized her. He kept seeing her with blond hair, though. Then everything slid into place...

"She wouldn't have been with any man but Archie. Why would she have come back here?"

"Hell if I know. She just said—"

"I heard you the first time."

While Zina and Zeke argued, George's mind reeled with memories.

_He knew better, by now, than to ask questions. The photo on the mantle was one of a woman with brown curls. Her eyes looked as if they would be dark, like pools of melted chocolate, and George wondered vaguely, as he hoisted his employer's unconscious body into a chair, if she had been some great affair of the Baron's before he came to Scotland..._

_A woman with brown curls was running down the street toward the house across the way where McLeod had gotten his girl from earlier. Tears were streaking down her face as she raced inside. Frowning a bit, George turned to go inside, flicking his cigarette into the gutter..._

_A woman with blond tresses was stumbling out of a hotel room. George called after her to wait, just catching a glance at her face as he pulled on his shoes. Her eyes were chocolate brown and her face looked familiar, but he had no time to think where he had seen her. Stumbling into Erik's hotel room, he listened as the other man told him to go after the woman—he said her name was Katie and that she had curly hair. George had frowned, not having remembered seeing curls, but he had followed her nevertheless..._

"Sir?" the doctor glanced up at George. "Could you come down here for a moment?"

George knelt down, trying to focus on what the doctor was saying so that Zina and Zeke, who were still yelling at each other, could not hear. The woman, Katie, was with child. Did he have any idea where her husband was? No husband... The father then? Not sure?

George slowly rose to his feet. He knew who this girl was. This was the woman from the photo in the library. She was the woman who had truly lain with Erik that night. This was Archie Palmer's girl, which meant that couldn't be Archie Palmer's child...

George hastily scrawled a letter to Archie, sealed it with wax he found on a dresser, and handed it to the doctor before sprinting from the room. He had to get to Scotland...

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It was dark outside by the time Archie had time to sit down next to Christine and press a damp cloth to her face. Heaving a sigh, he shooed the nurse out. Two hours ago, a tearful Zina had turned up on his front step, supported by a stony looking Zeke and a doctor, carrying an unconscious Christine and a letter from Erik's valet...

_Mr. Palmer,_

_The doctor will explain her condition to you._

_I must fetch the Baron at once, for I believe that he is responsible for her condition._

_Will return within a fortnight._

_Sincerely,_

_George Flaherty_

Archie ran a hand over his face. He wouldn't have put it past Erik to have lured Christine into bed. It wouldn't have been difficult, with as much as she had drank.

Christine rolled onto her side, moaning softy in her sleep. Archie felt stupid as he dabbed at her face—how could this have slipped past him? She was sleeping all the time, and the past two weeks had found her throwing up every night after dinner.

All he cared about right now was that Erik hurried. He wasn't sure what to do and Christine, who had woken only briefly after coming home, still did not know about her condition. Not sure how to tell her without causing her stress again, Archie had simply carried her to bed and tucked her in. Now she was sleeping again, and Archie was exhausted as he stared out the window, willing the next two weeks to pass quickly.

_a/n This story isn't typical me, so again, pay close attention to details. You may be able to figure out what's going on._

_Leave me reviews!_


	12. Chapter 11

**CHAPTER 11**

The house was quiet, save for the rhythmic drumming of rain on the roof and the occasional rumble of thunder. It was more relaxing than almost anything on earth and Erik closed his eyes as he sipped his tea. He could just hear Abby on the other side of the room, humming "Maid in Bedlam" quietly. He could vaguely remember someone singing this song to him when he was young—one of the gypsies, he thought. The longer Abby's voice carried to his ears, the more words to the song he remembered. Eyes still closed, he sang softly along with her voice.

_One morning very early,_

_one morning in the spring,_

_I heard a maid in Bedlam_

_who mournfully did sing._

_Her chains she rattled on her hands,_

_while sweetly thus sang she;_

_I love my love_

_because I know my love loves me._

Abby had stopped humming before he was finished singing, and he could hear her breathing, much closer than she had been before. Opening his eyes, he saw that she was leaning against the mantle, smiling.

"You do it justice better than I, sir," she said, in her soothing Irish lilt. "Such a sad song."

He nodded, his eyes slipping to the photo behind her. He thought briefly of Christine, wondering what had become of her. He had heard that, beaten by her husband, she had lost her mind. Resting his head back again, Erik sighed softly. He heard Abby resume her cleaning, still humming. She seemed to sense that his mood was somewhat melancholy, as it sometimes seemed only she could, and he chuckled as she began to sing "Rule Britannia" softly. It wasn't long before both of them were booming out,

_Rule, Britannia!_

_Britannia rule the waves!_

_Britons never shall be slaves!_

They were laughing and trying to think of another song when the sound of the front door opening and slamming shut filled the great house. George's voice soon followed, calling out for Erik. Standing, a frown crossed his face. George sounded nothing short of frantic.

"George?" Erik rose from his chair, stepping out into the hall. A confused looking Abby followed.

There was a pause, then thundering footsteps as George came tearing down a hall and around a corner toward them. He was red faced and soaking wet. Abby gasped audibly at the sight of him and darted back into the library to fetch a blanket.

George took advantage of her absence to immediately launch into speech, but the words tumbling from his mouth made no sense to Erik. The things he was saying simply weren't possible. When George finally ran out of steam, Erik stood, motionless, in the hallway. Abby reappeared with an afghan which she wrapped around George before pulling him into the library, where the fire was roaring, leaving Erik still standing alone in the hall.

It seemed as if time had stopped. What George had told him could not be true. He would have remembered being with Christine. He would have recognized her voice. He would have remembered the feel of her skin.

But he didn't remember anything from that night.

It felt like an eternity before a gentle hand on his arm led him back into the room. He felt himself being guided into a chair and a cup of tea being forced into his hands. He stared blankly at the fire, not seeing or feeling the stares of Abby and George. It was a long time before he spoke, and when he did, his voice was so soft it was only just audible over the crackling fire and the rain still pounding on the roof.

"Where is she, now?"

George looked down into his own cup of tea, unable to meet the now hollow green eyes. "She is at Mr. Palmer's house in London," he said quietly. "The doctor didn't want to move her anywhere else."

Erik still didn't look up when he asked, "Why not?"

"She..." George seemed to be having a difficult time finding words. "She isn't well, sir," he said quietly. "Last I spoke with him the doctor said she was very worn out from working and stress. Hadn't been eating well, either. He wasn't sure..." He trailed off again.

This time, Erik looked up sharply. "'What's sure' what?"

George raised his head and stared straight into his employer's eyes. "Wasn't sure if she could carry the child long enough to deliver."

It felt as if there wasn't enough air in the room, as if he were suffocating. He lunged out of his seat, making Abby jump slightly, and tore open a window. Cool, damp air filled his lungs as he gasped it in. He felt sick. This couldn't be happening—it was a bad dream...

But it wasn't a dream. The air on Erik's face was too cool, and the drops of water too wet, to be imagined.

Slowly, he closed the window and returned to his seat. With every step, he was conscious of the two pairs of eyes following him. He reseated himself and stared blankly ahead for several minutes before his eyes strayed up to the photo of Christine.

"Sir?" It was George. "What will your course of action be?"

"We go to London," he said quietly. "We leave immediately."

Erik had never known George and Abby to work so quickly. Within the hour, he was packed and the three of them were making their way through the rain toward London. Toward Christine...

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Archie watched as the doctor examined Christine. George had been gone for ten days and Christine had not woken for more than a few minutes at a time since. The doctor was worried for both her and the child at this point, as she had been able to hold down only broth. A fever had taken hold of Christine, and the doctor was more concerned than ever. Archie had sent for his own doctor, who knew of his orientation and would not ask questions regarding parentage. If anything, he would cover for both of them if it came to it.

Rising, the young doctor looked over at Archie and heaved a sigh. "I'm running out of ideas, Archie."

"Nothing's working?" Standing, he crossed to put a hand against Christine's face. It was burning.

The doctor shook his head. "I wish I could tell you I know what to do, but I don't. Her body is trying to take care of two people and it's running out of energy."

Christine moaned and her eyes fluttered. She rolled onto her side, reaching for Archie. "I don't feel good," she said quietly. "I want to go home."

It was the most she had said in days. Taking her hand, Archie pressed a kiss to her fingers. "What hurts, darling?"

She moaned again. Her eyes closed, and Archie frowned. "Do you know what it is?"

"Let's try to sit her up." Stepping to the other side of the bed, the doctor helped Archie hoist her into a sitting position. She moaned again, not opening her eyes this time, but seeming to try to curl into a ball. The doctor frowned. "She hasn't done that before, has she?"

Archie shook his head. "No, she—"

He was cut off by Christine crying out in pain. She was still trying to curl into a ball, pulling against Archie and the doctor.

Glancing at the maid in the corner of the room, the doctor's eyes flitted back to Archie. "You should probably step outside."

"No." Archie clutched her hand tighter. "I'm all she has—I'm not leaving."

"Very well." Stepping across to the maid, he said something softly to her. Her eyes widened and she bolted from the room.

"Where's she going?"

"For supplies. It's going to be a long night."

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It was nearing midnight when the three of them arrived in London and pulled up to the home of Archie Palmer. Stepping out of the carriage, Erik looked up at the house. The lights were on in two rooms upstairs, but no others.

"Sir, perhaps we should call back in the morning," George said quietly.

"Jesus, George, we're not here for a friendly visit," Abby hissed. Grasping Erik's arm, she marched up the stairs and knocked firmly on the door.

"What if no one answers?" Erik said quietly.

"Oh, like I don't answer your door at two in the morning," Abby scoffed. "Someone'll answer—that's their job."

Several minutes later, the door was pulled open to reveal a maid, fully dressed. "Baron McLeod," she said in surprise. "Whatever are you doing here, sir?"

"I need to see Mr. Palmer at once," he said harshly.

The maid looked a bit taken aback, but she stepped aside to let them inside. "Won't you come this way, sir?" She led them to the parlor, where she lit a lamp. "I'll get him for you sir," she said quietly, and vanished into the hall.

George and Abby sat down on a couch, but Erik could not hold still. Somewhere in this house was Christine—his Christine. The idea of seeing her had still not fully sunk in yet, and he wondered what he would say to her. He supposed he would have to apologize for her current situation. Then there was the issue of her husband, not even dead a year yet. Did he console her, or tell her how he still felt for her? Romance her or befriend her?

Slow footsteps in the hall jolted Erik from his thoughts. Archie entered the room, and his appearance shocked Erik to the core.

His face was pale and his eyes were red and bloodshot as if he had been crying. His hair was lying as if he had been tugging on it for hours. The top three buttons of his shirt, which was uncharacteristically untucked, were undone, his cravat undone and hanging about his neck. Back slumped and arms hanging heavily at his sides, he looked utterly defeated.

"She's asleep," he said quietly. His voice was rough and Erik realized with a start that he had been crying.

"Is she alright?"

Archie's hand ran over his face. He heaved a shaky sigh and said softly, "You'll see for yourself." Turning, he headed slowly back toward the stairs.

"We'll stay here," Abby said.

Nodding, Erik turned to follow Archie. The other man's walk was slow, as if he were walking toward the guillotine. As they slowly ascended the stairs, Erik felt as if there was some heavy weight on his shoulders. It was unlike Archie not to speak or explain things, and Erik felt uneasy as they reached the second floor landing.

Archie led him down a long hallway before stopping at a closed door. Light was coming from the crack at the bottom, and Archie put a hand on the doorknob. Before he opened the door, he looked at Erik. The look in his eyes was one Erik had never seen there before—it was one of deepest sympathy.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly, and he opened the door.

Erik stood in the hall for a moment, not looking inside. He was too terrified at what he might see. He didn't want to imagine Christine dead or near death. At that moment, a man stepped out of the room. His arms were full of sheets, and Erik could see blood on them. The other man seemed not to notice Erik. He walked down the hall and down the stairs and out of sight.

Gathering his courage, Erik stepped into the room.

She was there. Her face was pale and she was thinner than he had ever seen her. Her hair was fanned out around her head, and her chest rose and fell slowly as she slept. Stepping slowly toward her, Erik knelt and took her hand. Frowning, Erik looked up at Archie.

"I don't understand," he said slowly.

Archie's voice was hollow and his face was empty. "She lost the child," he said blankly.

He was dizzy. The thought of a miscarriage had hardly occurred to Erik the entire way to London. He knew these things happened, certainly, but he never expected it to happen this way...

The sheets in the man's arms made sense now.

Erik felt sobs coming from him, but the sounds coming from his mouth sounded like a wounded animal. He buried his face in Christine's hair, holding her close for the first time he could remember in years as he wept for both of them. He cried for the child he would never know and for the pain he knew she would feel when she awoke and learned what had happened. He cried for the future he knew they could never have, for the life that was lost before he even had it.

After what felt like hours, Erik stood. He felt Archie's eyes on his back as he turned away, attempting to compose himself.

"Erik? What should I tell her?"

"Tell her anything. Just don't tell her I was here."

Archie nodded. He stood back up. "I'll be outside if you need anything." Stepping around Erik, he walked out of the room and shut the door.

Turning back to the bed, Erik stared down at Christine. She was as beautiful as ever. There were a few more lines in her face than there had been the last time he had seen her, but her face was peaceful and relaxed. He knew in the morning she would probably be in shambles.

Kneeling again beside her bed, he pressed his lips to her forehead. Still fighting back tears, he whispered, "I'm sorry I hurt you again." He kissed her lips softly, not wanting to wake her, then rose, turned, and left the room.

When Christine awoke in the morning, he was gone, and Archie was as true to his word as he could be.

_a/n Told ya, not typical me. I know it seems sad, but have faith! You know I like my endings happy, and some things never change._


	13. Chapter 12

_a/n I know it's not a promising statement to start a new chapter with but... don't hate me. I love you. I hope you love me. You're about to get some romance, so you have to leave me alone... :)_

_a/n #2 Actually, you can't hate me. This is the fastest I've updated. I just keep pumping them out! It's very therapeutic and I keep getting more ideas to make you squirm even more. That said..._

**CHAPTER 12**

He had heard George and Abby out in the hall earlier and was proud when he heard Abby say that she felt like Beethoven's maid.

"It's like he's gone mad," she muttered. "All he does is pound out angry music all day long, things I've never heard before. He must be composing."

"It's not our business," George had replied. "If he wants to compose, let him."

"But I'm the one that has to clean up after him!"

"How bad is it?"

"Papers everywhere, he hasn't bathed in days, food flung to the far corners of the room—there's a chicken leg stuck on a wall in there, for God's sake!"

Looking around, Erik had seen that indeed, there was.

Now, two hours later, he was sulking in a bath of hot water and salts. Abby seemed to think it would rejuvenate him. He didn't want to feel rejuvenated. He wanted to sulk in a tub of misery and despair.

Erik had never felt worse in his life. George had returned from London the day before, having set up an account for Christine if ever she needed it, and had brought with him a letter from her. He hadn't been able to read it. He was terrified what it might say. Zina had told him more than once, and quite frankly, the Christine quite abhorred his womanizing and his promiscuous habits. Of course, she had referred to Christine as "Katie" and Erik had been annoyed at the time. Now, in retrospect, Christine's dislike for him made much more sense than it had all those weeks ago. She would, of course, dislike a man that slept with any woman he chose. Her husband has been much like that, and he was certain that, had they actually met, she would have been very disappointed in him.

It was because of this fear that he had not opened her letter as of yet. George had urged him to read it and reply, saying that she had not seemed angry when handing the letter to him. On the contrary, she had, according to George, been melancholy and confined to her room in Archie's house. Much like him, she had been refusing most company, not eating much, and not inclined to bathe. However, her temper was the opposite of his. Instead of howling like a wounded bison, she was quiet and contained, staying all day in a room with drawn curtains and only a candle for light.

Heaving a world-weary sigh, he heaved himself from the tub. Water dripped down his muscular arms and legs and he stood there for several long moments, naked and up to his calves in water, before stepping slowly from the tub. He dried himself slowly before wrapping up in a robe and stepping out into his bedroom.

Christine's letter was still sitting innocently on the desk, just as he had left it, propped up against the lamp so that his name was visible in her handwriting. He couldn't remember her penmanship being so tidy.

It was as if an invisible hand were drawing him closer and closer to the drafting desk. He was hesitant as he picked up the letter, but his fingers opened it of their own accord. They were trembling as the parchment slid from inside and unfolded. He closed his eyes for a moment, gathering himself, before he sat down and began to read.

_My dear sir,_

_I do not recall the last time we met, and I have been informed that you remember no more than I do. I have also been informed that Archie made you aware of the situation. Zina Belogorov is a dear friend of mine here in London and she tells me that you feel responsible for what happened._

_I must assure you that you have done nothing wrong. If anyone is to blame, it is I, for not recognizing the symptoms my body was giving me. I have been with child before, and miscarried every time, which the doctor informed me makes it more difficult for me to carry. I must be expecting it and take care of myself from the start. There was nothing to be done from the start, I suppose, as far as he is concerned. Still, I don't think he understands, as I do, the feeling you are left with when someone inside of you dies._

_Zina also tells me that you are feeling as miserable as I. Take comfort in the fact that you are not alone. My heart grieves as yours does, my dreams are tortured, and I feel as if I shall never get out of bed again. The person we created, even though we do not recall it, would have been a beautiful child in my eyes, and I'm sure yours, as well._

_There is one more thing I wish to tell you. I have been on stage for as long as I can remember, and we creatures of the arts do not come without a bit of mystery. If we are to truly feel each others pain,then I do not wish you to think of me as Katie or Katrin or any variation thereof._

_My name is yours to use, with great discretion._

_Yours in pain, suffering, and hope,_

_Christine_

The pages were covered in droplets of water long before he had finished reading the letter. It made sense that she would use a stage name, but to see her name written in her handwriting was almost too much. He sobbed as he had on that dreadful night. He had a piece of her to carry with him always.

Then an idea struck him. It was so obscene, he very nearly laughed through his tears.

Pulling out a pen and piece of paper, he began to write back...

**/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-**

Christine felt no desire to get out of bed. She hadn't left her room at Archie's for two weeks. Already, he had set an understudy up for the next opera so that Christine had the rest of the year off. He had been so wonderful, not forcing her to leave the room or even to open the curtains to let in the September sun.

Today, she could hear rain on the roof, so she opened the curtains to see the drab sight outside. It reflected her mood. It was midday, but almost dark outside. Heavy sheets of rain fell onto the square below and she lay back down to stare out. She felt so empty. It was odd—even though she hadn't known that she was pregnant, she felt as if something very dear had been taken from her.

Archie had said very little about what had happened while she was unconscious. She only knew that he was aware of the identity of the father and that she wouldn't remember him. She knew what the implication was—her one night stand after the ball had left her with child. At first, he hadn't wanted to give her a name, but finally, she pried it out of him.

Christine wasn't sure how Zina could keep coming to visit her day after day. She was the reason Baron McLeod hadn't wanted to continue his relationship with Zina, after all. Zina seemed to hold no grudge against Christine, though, and was honest when she spoke of the end of their relationship.

"He told me he didn't feel right continuing to see me," she had said softly. "He felt as if everything that meant anything was gone. I still don't understand everything he said, but I understand how he feels. He feels the same way you do."

Upon asking is the Baron had plans to visit her, Archie had shaken his head. "He feels terrible," he said. "He thinks he caused you pain and he doesn't want to hurt you again."

"It wasn't his fault," she had replied, sliding deeper under the covers. She couldn't understand why he wouldn't even write. In an optimistic gesture, she had written him a letter explaining her feelings and telling him that there was no fault to be had. Not enough time had yet passed to receive a reply, but she had sent it with George when he left to return to Scotland several days before, so she didn't assume to have to wait too much longer.

A soft knock on the door pulled Christine from her thoughts.

"Come in."

The door opened a bit, and Archie stuck in head in. "Would you like some company?" When she did not reply, he stepped inside and walked across to the window, looking out. "I figured you'd like the view for today." He sat down in the chair next to her. "Have you eaten?"

"I ate the soup."

"How was it?"

"Fine." She continued to stare out at the rain.

"Just fine?" Archie seemed to think that she was suddenly going to become social.

Christine only nodded.

Archie reached for a book on the bedside table. "Do you want me to read some more to you today?"

"Yes, please."

Flipping to the next chapter in _Jane Eyre_, he began to read. His voice was soothing, and Christine took comfort in the fact that Jane's ending would be happy. She found herself wishing she could be so lucky. Closing her eyes, she tried to remember anything about Baron McLeod, but she couldn't.

She was just drifting off when there was a distant knock. Opening her eyes, Christine stared up at Archie. He smiled down at her. "Be right back."

He left, but returned less than a minute later, clutching a letter in his hand. He was staring down at it in apparant confusion. "It's for you," he said. He held it out to her.

Unsure what there was to be confused about, Christine pulled herself up and took the letter from him. "Christine" had been written across the front. She frowned, as well. Who would be writing to Christine? Curious more than afraid, she opened it.

_My dear madam,_

_I feel I must write to you in response to the letter you sent to me by way of my servant. I feel wholly responsible for the situation in which you currently find yourself. Firstly, I pray that this letter finds you in better health than that in which your letter was written. I have heard that a woman in your condition takes a great deal of time to heal physically, but I do not care to imagine the pain in your heart at the moment. I only hope it is not nearly as great as mine._

_Second, I hope that your situation has not demeaned you in any way, socially. I will take full responsibility should any man or woman slander your name. There is no reason for them to do so—you did nothing wrong. The fault for your state is mine, and I must attest to it. I do not mean for this to sound in any way superficial. I merely have your wellbeing in mind. As such, I have set up an account to help you pay for any medical expenses you may have incurred and any losses in wages you may experience from your temporary lack of ability to work._

_I do hope you will be back on your feet soon. From what our friend has told me, you are a very strong woman and I have no doubt that you will, in time, recover, even if not fully, to the point where you can work doing what you love._

_Mr. Palmer has informed me that your next appearance is to be as Leonore in _Fidelio_. An underperformed work, to be certain. I wish you the best of luck in your endeavors._

_Yours eternally,_

_B. Erik McLeod_

Christine stared at the paper in her hands. She was stunned. Whatever she had expected to hear back from the Baron, it certainly wasn't this. As odd as it seemed, she almost felt as much warmth from his wishes of luck during _Fidelio_ in January as from his offer to take responsibility for his actions. He was even trying to take care of her...

Then there was the penmanship. It was beautiful, and reminded Christine of something. She couldn't remember what, but she didn't want to try. The signature was written with a handsome flourish, and the phrase, "yours eternally," stuck out at Christine, warming her heart and making her smile slightly for the first time in weeks.

She reread it twice before remembering that Archie was still in the room. She simply smiled at him before she folded the letter and placed it in the drawer.

"I want to take a bath," she said quietly. "Then I want to come down and I want us to have lunch together."

Archie raised his eyebrows. "Really?"

She stared out the window at the rain, and her eyes were distant as she said quietly, "I want to know more about my new pen pal."

_a/n I can hear you guys now. You're going like this... "She's doing this on purpose. She gets some kind of sick, twisted sexual pleasure out of making me wait. WHEN ARE THEY GONNA MEET??!!"_

_All in good time, my friends, all in good times..._

_Leave me reviews! You've seen their power!_

_I feel the need to explain that it is Monday and I had the weekend off, which is part of why the updates came so fast. Hopefully, it'll be a continuing trend._


	14. Chapter 13

_a/n There's only one point of view in this chapter. The beginning kind of sucks, but it's a filler chapter. What can I say? I need lameness to get to the next part, and I'm sure by the end, you will have forgiven me._

CHAPTER 13

Chocolate on top of chocolate was quickly becoming Christine's favorite comfort food. The bars that had arrived in the mail at Christmas were dwindling, but melting them with some milk was something she couldn't help doing on a bitter Thursday afternoon in January. She thought, as she bit into another small piece of the rich candy, that she was going to become fat if this kept up. This was the most relaxing break she had had in some time, though, and she was bent on enjoying it.

Setting her cup aside, Christine began to sift through the stack of mail and notes that had been piled and bound together with string before it had been placed outside her door that morning. There were the usual letters from male admirers, invitations for winter recitals, and a letter from Scotland.

Setting aside all but the latter, she opened the envelope and pulled out the paper. She smiled as a pressed flower fell from the folds and landed in her lap. Picking it up, she smiled, shaking her head and wondering where he had managed to find a daisy in January.

_Dear Christine,_

_I hope you enjoy the little bit of spring I am sending you. The idea was mine, though I must admit, the actual product was supplied by Abby._

_Things here are quiet, as per usual at this time of year. There is not much to be done for it. We are all experiencing some degree of cabin fever while we wait for enough snow to melt to go to town. In the meantime, George has seen fit to continue his pursuit of Abby's affections. I think he is making some progress, as she had a fit of giggles yesterday afternoon that lasted long enough for me to leave, come back with tea, and still find her humming and giggling._

_I have it from our mutual friends that your performance in _Fidelio_ was beyond anything you have done so far. I apologize for not being able to see it, myself. As I said, the weather did not permit travel to London with any ease._

_I also must thank you for the Christmas gift you sent me. I have finished reading it and completely agree that it is a wonderful piece of work. Like you, I was thrown by a bit of the dialogue, but the story itself was incredibly moving. Although I cannot remember at the moment where exactly I read it, I once read that Abraham Lincoln said that this was the book that started the civil war in America._

_My best wishes for your success as Flora come with this letter. Verdi is not a composer I am normally particularly fond of, however, _Traviata_ is something of an exception._

_I am glad that you enjoyed the chocolate. If you desire more, all you need do is ask._

_Yours,_

_B. Erik McLeod_

Christine heaved a sigh. She had known he would not reply to the brief postscript she had added in her last letter, but it didn't stop her from being disappointed. Her correspondence with the Baron McLeod over the last few months had been giving her something to look forward to. She was forever intrigued that, for a man who claimed to dislike the opera, he seemed to know every composer and role ever written for the musical stage. She had suggested that he come to see her in _La traviata_ and perhaps dine with her afterwards, but he had replied with nothing more than a "good luck." She shouldn't be surprised—according to Archie, he was still distressed over the "vast amount of pain he had subjected her to."

She could care less, at this point.

Heaving a sigh, Christine refolded the letter and put it into a drawer with the others. She gently slid the flower into a small gap between the mirror and its frame on her dresser before slipping on shoes and leaving to wander the opera house.

In their two week break between finishing a performance and beginning rehearsal for another, the house was always so quiet. Today, however, as the weather did not permit leisurely walks, there were more people here than usual. The thin layer of wet snow on the ground outside was keeping many of the opera house's inhabitants inside, among them, Ezekiel Lewis.

Christine found Zeke in his usual spot, just inside the door of the entrance hall, frowning out at the dismal weather and smoking a cigarette. As he heard her footsteps, he quickly slid into a small gap where he could not be seen, and Christine smiled.

"It's only me," she said, laughing. "I haven't even seen Donata all day."

Zeke's head poked around the corner and his lips quirked in a smile. "Should have known," he said, his words running together soothingly. "You walk more softly than her."

"I think she's with Herr Biermann, actually."

"That so."

"It is. I heard they were sleeping together."

Zeke's eyebrows raised as he took another drag off his cigarette. "Doesn't surprise me a bit."

Christine slid down the wall next to him, breathing in the cold, damp air and resting her head back on the pillar at her back. She let her eyes close and she heaved a sigh. "I don't think he's coming."

"Herr Biermann?"

Christine opened her eyes, raising an eyebrow.

"Ah." Leaning against the opposite pillar, Zeke studied her with interest. "Your baron."

She didn't need a mirror to know that her face was turning scarlet. "He's not _my_ baron. He's just a friend."

"A friend you seem to spend a lot of time writing to."

"How else am I supposed to get to know him?" Christine crossed her arms, scowling. "It's not as if he'd come to visit."

Zeke frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, he seems to find any excuse to avoid coming to London."

"He's—"

"Honestly, it's as if I have the plague. He wants to write letters and make me feel as if he's coming to care for me, then he blows off the idea of actually seeing me."

"But he—"

"Then there's Archie. I feel like there's something he's not telling me, and it's so frustrating, I could—" She was cut off with an indignant squeal as Zeke's hand clapped over her mouth.

"If you'd stop for a minute, I could tell you that Baron McLeod is in London right this moment on business. He visited Zina yesterday," he added darkly, removing his hand.

Christine was shocked into silence for several long moments. She rose, turning to go back inside. She heard Zeke call after her, but she waved him off, rushing back to her room.

Furious, Christine slammed the door behind her before she set about stomping around, rearranging anything she could get her hands on. She couldn't believe he was in London! She had just gotten a letter from him saying the roads were impassible.

Slamming down a stack of books on her vanity, Christine glared at her reflection in the mirror. She looked like hell—perhaps he had seen her and fled. Briefly, she ran her fingers through her hair to straighten it before seizing a cloak and heading outside to hail a cab.

Thirty minutes later, she had searched Archie's house from top to bottom. There was no sign of him anywhere, which she found distinctly odd. Annoyed at nothing in particular, she stomped back up the stairs to her room. Slamming this door, as well, she trudged to the closet, shedding her snow-soaked clothes as she went. Staring into her closet, Christine reached behind her to try to undo her corset. Her frustration increased by increments as she found she could not reach the laces. Nearly in tears, she walked over to her vanity. Sitting, she began to comb out her hair. Looking down, she saw that there was a note from Archie. Pausing briefly to unfold it, she placed it in front of her and began to read.

_Christine—_

_Had some business with Samuel to take care of—you know how long that takes. Tell the maid to start dinner without me. Don't wait up._

_Love from,_

_Archie_

Christine heaved a sigh. Samuel was Archie's latest interest, a slightly older man of similar status to Archie who seemed to share his frustration at their unavoidable situations. Archie seemed to be trying to get Samuel into a situation similar to his—a woman under the other man's roof would allow Archie almost unlimited access to Samuel's bed with limited suspicions. Samuel spent so many nights at Archie's house that Christine was beginning to feel replaced.

She was still looking down at Archie's note when she heard a sharp gasp behind her. Before she even had time to look in the mirror, she saw the door closing. Frowning, Christine rose and reached for a robe. She hadn't been aware that anyone was here.

The hallway was empty by the time Christine reached it. She was getting ready to turn around and to back to her room when she heard a door open downstairs and booming laughter. Knowing who was here, she walked to the landing at the top of the stairs. Glancing back one last time, Christine walked down the stairs to greet Archie and Samuel…

It was late before Christine finally retired for the night. Archie and Samuel had long since disappeared upstairs. Slowly, Christine trudged back up to her room. Other than Archie acting a bit odd, the day had been fairly uneventful. She was uncertain what was going on at the moment, but she had felt somewhat awkward at dinner. Archie and Samuel had been having a conversation about some woman Archie had found at a dress shop in Soho that he thought would be perfect for Samuel. The entire time that she chewed her lamb, however, Christine had had the feeling that she was being watched closely. It made no sense, though—Archie and Samuel were simply too wrapped up in each other. The feeling had persisted through dinner and followed her into the library, where she had curled up with a new book Archie had found for her.

Now, as she changed for bed, she finally felt as if no one were looking at her as if ready to pounce. At one point, she felt certain that she had heard a door close, but she had ignored it, simply telling herself that she was a bit paranoid.

Then the front door closed. It was quiet, but she heard it. She heard no footsteps on the polished wooden floor of the entrance hall—someone had left.

Quickly, she put out the lights and crept to the window. Two sides of her conscious were arguing—one said she was being silly, the other that she was… Well, she supposed the whole thing was silly.

She pulled a curtain aside just slightly, crouching down to peer unobserved at the carriage that was stopped outside. A man was loading a large suitcase into it. His foot slipped on the wet cobblestones, and he turned as he worked to regain his footing. Christine inhaled sharply—it was George Flaherty.

Cracking the window just slightly, she strained her ears to hear any voices coming from below. George was frowning down at his trousers.

"The shit I do for you," he said, shaking his head as he brushed water from them. "I don't understand why you need to sneak out so late." A small satchel flew at him from someone Christine could not see, and George's frown deepened to a scowl. "Don't see why you're pissed at me—I didn't tell her you were here."

"Someone did." If Christine had been a dog, her ears would have perked. "I heard her say something to Palmer at dinner about me."

George rolled his eyes. "You're getting paranoid, old man."

"You'd be paranoid if you were me. You don't understand what I did to her, George. After the things I put her through, I couldn't blame her for never forgiving me." Baron McLeod had a deep, soothing voice, but Christine felt very uneasy. It was somehow familiar to her, but that wasn't possible. She couldn't remember anything about that night…

"I understand—Jules told me all about it after you decided to confuse me further." George grunted as he tied a trunk to the back of the carriage. "Sounds to me like you dug yourself a grave and buried yourself before she even had the chance to run you through."

There was a flash of light and the smell of cigarette smoke wafted up. "You would have done the same. Don't let me forget to beat the hell out of Jules next time I see him." He chuckled—even his laugh was uncanny. "Having fun?"

George paused, still holding the rope tightly. "You just going to stand there and watch? Or do I have to drag your ungrateful arse over here to get some help?"

"I'm enjoying myself," McLeod said, laughter still present in his voice. "Your pain always amuses me."

"That why you keep telling me I'm doing fine with Abby?" He raised an eyebrow. "And who the hell are you to try to give me advice about women?"

A dark figure stepped from the shadows of the house toward George, and Christine struggled to see him in the dim lamplight. Grabbing the rope from George, McLeod gave it a tug and crouched down, tying it underneath the carriage. He stood, his back still to Christine. "There."

"Yeah, after I got it started for you." George stepped around his employer, fastidiously opening the door to the carriage for his employer. "Can you get in without assistance?" Just before McLeod reached the door, George slid in, closing the door behind him.

McLeod didn't move for a moment—he simply stared at the carriage door. Then, the voice of the driver drifted up. "Where to, sir?"

"Home," he said. His voice had lost its teasing tone, and his shoulders, so broad moments before, slumped.

The carriage door opened again and George's frowning visage appeared once more. "If you're so upset, just go up and talk to her."

"I can't, George." McLeod bowed his head—his hair was almost as dark as the night sky, and something about him struck Christine as even more familiar than before. He looked defeated. "She'd never forgive me. We're better off this way."

George sighed. "Then get in. It's bloody freezing."

McLeod hopped up on the step, and sighed heavily. It was just before he turned to glance up at the house that something in the back of Christine's mind clicked.

She wasn't sure what threw her more—the white, half mask or the fact that she was not at all startled by its presence on the right side of Baron McLeod's face. What did shock her was the left side of his face.

In the brief moments that she could see him, Christine was shocked to see how haggard he looked. The handsome side of his face was lined—it was obvious that he hadn't slept well in weeks, perhaps since he had first realized what had transpired between them that night. His eyes, however, were the same bright green she remembered, but they were older now, and there were dark circles beneath the left one. Gone were the immaculate evening clothes she remembered, now replaced by comfortable trousers held up by suspenders. He wore a white shirt, the top several buttons undone, under a black overcoat.

Then he turned and disappeared inside the carriage, and he was gone again.

Christine wasn't sure how long she sat on the floor. She hardly remembered taking off her robe and climbing back into bed. She only remembered the thoughts that whirled through her head, taking her away from the concept of sleep. So many things made sense, now—his knowledge of theatre, and, in some way, his refusal to watch opera. His lack of mentioning the idea of meeting her seemed to make sense as she recalled his conversation with George.

She was angry, at first, but as she thought about it longer, more things seemed to click into place. He had had seven years to convince himself that he would never be forgiven by her and that she was finished with him. It was highly possible that he didn't know of Raoul's treatment of her in those last years. There was no way he would know of her thoughts of him, how she had missed him…

The sun rose behind the clouds the next morning, but Christine didn't see it through her tears.

_a/n For your patience, I decided to reward you. Things are going to start getting interesting and, to some extent, highly amusing. Leave your love/hate in the form of a review, please!_


	15. Chapter 14

_a/n Skipping ahead to about three months later, now. Let's call it... um... I'm thinking... I'm also typing while I think... hmm... Oh, I know! April! Like my pen name! It's getting lovely outside, and our favorite hunk of man is getting busier with work._

_Leave me the usual sugar and love!_

**CHAPTER 14**

Erik frowned as he read over his mail. Absently, he took another sip of coffee from the cup in front of him as he read various letters from his firm in town. The same thing happened every year, it seemed—overbooking, too many promises being made of too much grandeur, problems finding workers and skilled masons...

There was a soft clink of china as Abby made her way into the room, bearing his breakfast on a tray. He took a bite of toast, but Abby still stood, arms crossed, frowning.

"What?"

She raised her eyebrows. "Every time you get back from London, I feel like I have to fatten you up."

Erik rolled his eyes at his maid. "I don't pay you to turn me into a bowl of lard."

Abby rolled her eyes and refilled his coffee cup. "Any letters from your lady friend?"

Erik sorted through the pile at his side. He paused when he found his name written elegantly on the front flat parcel wrapped in brown paper that was postmarked in London. The return address was that of "Katrin von Otter" of the London opera.

Instead of answering Abby and giving her reason to sit next to him while he opened his mail, he took a large bite of his eggs and washed it down with water. Abby seemed to forget her question and she smiled brightly at her employer.

"There, ya see? Not so bad, is it?"

He smiled back, watching as she disappeared around the corner. He set aside the letter he had been reading and reached for Christine's package. Tearing the top open, he slid out several sheets of music. The front cover page read "'Souvenir de Porto Rico' by Louis Moreau Gottschalk." Intrigued and slightly confused, he opened it. It was a piece for solo piano that looked unlike anything he had seen in his life. He set it aside, promising himself that he would read through it later, and reached for the letter that had fallen out of the package with the music.

_My dearest Erik,_

_You'll forgive Archie for letting slip that you once played piano and that you sometimes dabble a bit. Herr Biermann introduced this piece to me by accident one evening during rehearsal and I fell in love with it. It's unlike anything I've ever heard, and I hope you enjoy it._

_I regret to inform you that Donata has not yet ceased to give her usual performances. She continues to faint when it is oddly convenient for her. This has been good for me, however, as Zina and I have won almost enough from betting Armando to take ourselves out for dinner on him. Zina has been neglecting to tell anyone but me that Zeke has been eavesdropping on her talking to her maid about how long she'll stay down and when to use the smelling salts._

_Archie has, of late, been spending increasing with Samuel Henderson, who, I have been informed, is a client of yours. It is indeed lovely to see Archie so happy with someone who understands him. I was worried that I would have too much time to myself. However, Samuel has taken his cues from Archie's expertise in hiding his orientation. Samuel recently befriended a young woman from a dress shop in Soho to be a live-in companion. I met her last week and was delighted to find that she was an old friend from before I moved to London. Michelle and I have been spending afternoons at Archie's when I do not have rehearsal. She and I have caught up on the last several years and now are free to trade stories and bits of gossip._

_It's so relaxing to, at the moment, have nothing to worry about now that the run of _ Dido and Aeneas_ is finished. The next opera has also been announced, and I am excited to announce that the Royal Opera will be putting on its first performance of Offenbach's _Orpheus in the Underworld_. I don't recall a time I was so excited over an operetta. Apparently, this is to be the first of several operettas in a brief series. I do hope you come to see at least one._

_I am also excited, for my first trip to Russia is coming up. Zina has been asked by the tsar himself to come for a performance of _The Pharaoh's Daughter._ What is just as exciting, though, its that she's had it fixed so that I will appear in a special performance of _Boris Godunov_. It's a relatively new opera, and it's so Russian it's frightening! The opera itself is in Russian (which Zina is helping me with, of course), but the music sounds like something you would hear blared in St. Petersburg or Moscow. I am to play the part of Kseniya, daughter to the tsar. I can't read most of what they have sent me, but as I mentioned, Zina is being simply wonderful about it all. She is very painstakingly going through and writing everything into something resembling phonetic English. It is to be performed as the last performance before the break for Christmas. Can you imagine—St. Petersburg at Christmas! We will take the train home at the start of the year. It's frightening that I am now planning so far ahead. She has already told me that we will leave in early November._

_I fear that I am boring you with this news, but I simply cannot help myself—I am going to sing in Russia in front of Tsar Alexander!_

_Forgive me for saying so, my darling, but I do so wish you would consider coming with us. Promise me that you will think on it._

_Yours eternally,_

_Christine's_

Erik took a deep, slightly shaky breath. It was a lot to soak in at once. Christine and Michelle, back together again, could be dangerous for his secret. He would have to try to get in touch with Michelle to beg for her silence. Even more shaking, Christine would be away in Russia. He was faced with an ultimatum—reveal himself and beg for forgiveness (and likely be refused when he requested to accompany the women to Russia) or simply take time off and follow them at a distance. Following Christine at a distance had been something he had become an expert at in the past months. Sneaking to London to watch her as Belinda had been all too easy. He had purchased an entire box and sat in the shadows, watching her follow Donata around.

In any case, he supposed, he had several months before he needed to make a decision. There was one other thing, though, as he looked at the letter in his hands. It was far from the first time she had written it...

_Yours eternally._

Their letters were often sighed with such a loving farewell. It seemed to him that the letters had become something of a long-distance courtship where the lovers had not, nor would ever, meet. His fingers traced over the words, "dearest Erik." Heaving a sigh, he headed up the stairs to play the song she had sent to him, wishing that she were there to hear it, all the while, trying to think of a response.

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It was hours later before Erik finally decided that the need for a bath was unavoidable. He was quite sure that he reeked of sweat. In his frustration, he had spent several hours rearranging the music in his library. The dust clung to his sweaty body and he felt utterly disgusting.

In the bathroom, he peeled off his clothes and dropped them on the tile piece by piece. He stared at himself in the mirror for several minutes. He was pleased with most of what he saw—he only wished his face matched the rest of him. Years spent as an architect were not difficult to see. Not content to sit behind a desk and give orders, Erik usually spent most of his time on site, working side by side with his laborers. He found that things tended to get done faster and better when he oversaw the work himself. Now, after all the time spend lifting, hammering, and moving stone, he was stronger than he had been in years and more muscular and toned than he could ever remember being.

He turned away from the mirror as he removed his mask.

The water was still steaming as Erik lowered himself slowly into it. He groaned as the heat sank into his aching muscles. He could feel the dirt melting from his skin and he rested his head back, closing his eyes as he soaked in the hot water.

His mind wandered back to that place where it spent so many hours, back to Christine. This time, though, he could hear the grandeur of the bells of Russia and see its famed domes. The thought of her dressed to absolute perfection and dancing with a handsome young beau at some state dinner made his heart ache. He was certain that she would forget her friend, the Baron, on her trip, but he was just as certain that she would hate to see him.

Wouldn't she?

He forced himself to stop thinking about it and set about scrubbing himself pink and clean again before climbing out and dressing for bed.

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Miles away, Christine was soaking in a different tub at the same time. Next to her, Archie read to her from _The Canterbury Tales_. It had become a favorite pastime of theirs—Archie would read while Christine soaked. Two months ago, Christine, in a move considered scandalous by many and juicy by all, had moved from her apartment at the opera house to live with Andrew. She had known that rumors would fly, but she couldn't stand to stay in the stuffy old house any longer. She had begun to spend so much time at Archie's that it was like home, in any case. The day had arrived when they agreed that it would be beneficial to both of them for her to stay with him on the pretense that, as a single Frenchwoman, it would be inappropriate and unsafe for her to live alone in some strange part of the city.

The new arrangement suited them both. On most nights, they dined together, talked about their days, then Christine would take a bath while Archie read to her. Then, she would wrap up in a soft robe and head off to her room to go to bed.

Archie stopped partway through the tale of the Wife of Bath's tale and marked his place. "More tomorrow," he said, yawning. "I'm exhausted."

"I'm going to stay in for a bit longer," she said. "It feels so nice—it was such a long day today."

Archie smiled down at her. "Don't turn into a prune," he said teasingly, dropping a kiss on the top of her head. "Goodnight, love."

"Goodnight, darling."

The door closed behind him and Christine was left alone. She rested her head back and closed her eyes, imagining what Erik was doing right now. She wondered if he had yet received her letter. If he had, he was undoubtedly playing the music she had sent him.

She found herself wishing, not for the first time, that he was here. If he were, she was certain that she would not be sleeping alone. A vulgar thought occurred to her just then—maybe he could even be in the bath with her.

Her eyes opened swiftly and she stared ahead of her toward the dark, curtained window. So much had happened in the last few weeks. At first, the thought of going to Russia had seemed absurd but as time had progressed, she became more and more excited. She truly hoped that, by November, Erik would come to his senses and join her and Zina.

As sea thought of how many times she had glimpsed him climbing into carriages and out of her grasp in the past few months, Christine felt herself becoming irrationally angry. The need to talk to another woman was overwhelming and Christine hoisted herself out of the tub. Rushing back to her room, she hurriedly threw on clothes and grabbed a purse and some money before heading downstairs. She was just thinking that it would be difficult to find a cab this late when the door opened and she found herself face to face with Samuel.

"Good evening, Christine." He tipped his hat. "You're not heading out, are you?"

She nodded, and glanced over his shoulder. His driver was sitting out front with the carriage. "May I?"

Samuel smiled. "You'd be doing me a favor." His eyes twinkled merrily.

Christine smiled back. "Archie's just upstairs," she said. Leaning up, she kissed his cheek swiftly. "Good night."

Twenty minutes later, Christine had a glass of wine in her hand as she paced back and forth, feeling Zina's eyes following her every move.

"I don't understand why he continues to avoid me," she ranted. "Is it the way I look? Am I too old for him now?"

Zina ran her finger around the rim of her glass thoughtfully. "I don't think it's any of those things," she said slowly. Christine had long since told Zina, under strictest confidentiality, the happenings of her past with Erik. She had left out everything she could, but telling someone had been necessary.

"Then what?" 

"The Erik you tell me about is different than the Erik I know." She sipped her wine, then continued. "The Erik I know is a relatively quite man who has a history of drinking entirely too much and wooing every woman he can with the most dishonorable intentions. Perhaps he has changed."

Christine thought about this for a moment before asking, "Have you ever heard of me?"

Zina frowned as she drank. "What?"

"Have you ever heard of me. You know, before I came here, had you ever heard of Christine Daae?"

"Only that you were involved in some kind of scandal at the opera. The details were sketchy."

The next part of her question was going to be tricky to ask without giving too much away—Zina was sharp. "The de Chagnys. Have you ever heard of them?"

"Didn't the husband kill himself some years back?" Zina stood up, guiding Christine to a chair. "You're making me dizzy. Yes—he killed himself after his wife ran off. I heard about it in passing with some of the bureaucrats—they said it wasn't in the papers as suicide, but that's what it was. Why?"

"Just wondering." Christine propped her feet out in front of her, drinking deeply from her glass. "What did you ever hear about the husband?"

"I heard he was a drunk and a womanizer," Zina said darkly. "There were even some rumors that he beat his wife regularly—they say that's why she ran off like she did. The mistress supposedly knew where she'd gone, but she wouldn't tell a soul, not even the police. Said she'd take it to the grave rather than betray the poor woman. That's when the rumors started."

As Zina finished her wine and made to refill the glass, Christine contemplated. She knew Erik well enough to know how he thought to a certain extent. He had loathed Raoul in a way that was unsurpassed even by her own hatred of her dead husband. Was he angry at her for marrying him in the first place? Or perhaps, was he afraid that she would reject him for the ways of his past?

Her time to think ran out soon. Zina, drunk from the wine, passed out fifteen minutes later on the love seat. After tucking a blanket around her friend and scrawling a note to her that she would see her in the morning, Christine let herself out and made her way outside, where Samuel's driver was still waiting, taking a nap.

When she arrived home, Christine let herself in as quietly as she could. Still, at the top of the stairs, she met Archie. His arms were crossed and a small frown was on his face.

"Where have you been?"

"I was with Zina," she said softly. "Didn't you talk to Samuel?"

"He fell asleep. I came to talk to you and you were gone."

"I took his driver and went to the house. I just needed another woman to talk to."

The frown cleared from Archie's face and was replaced with a look of brotherly concern. "Are you alright?"

She smiled tiredly. "Tuck me in?"

Later, as she was nestled in her bed with Archie next to her, she briefly wondered what had happened to her Angel to make him turn to the bottle before she fell into the world of sleep, where anything can happen and everyone is happy.

_a/n Yay for walking pneumonia! I don't care what anyone says—I don't want to go anywhere, do anything, but sit at my computer and sleep. F school. ALSO—if you want to hear beautiful Russian opera, Mussorgsky's _Boris Godunov _is an excellent choice. It was mentioned here mostly because of that, but partly because I have the music from the coronation scene stuck in my head. It's absolutely amazing—very Russian, very rich and full. Read up on it. That's your music lit lesson for the day. Forgive me—it's in my nature as a future music educator._

_Leave a message at the sound of the tone... BEEP!_


	16. Chapter 15

_A/n This bitch is crazy. Please forgive her temporary absence. She's been busy not being abstinent._

**CHAPTER 15**

_Love makes your soul crawl out from its hiding place. Zora Neale Hurston_

November had come far too quickly for Christine, and in the whirlwind that had proceeded it, a great deal had happened.

Her contract with the London opera was up, but it was not for that reason that she was choosing to leave—they had, in fact, offered her a pay raise and begged her to stay. La Fenice in Venice had offered her an obscene amount of money and a lovely, posh apartment to become their new prima donna. Christine was slightly sad that she would be leaving, but Zina was to come with her as the prima ballerina, an arrangement that suited them both. Archie owned a flat in Venice and promised to visit often. Zeke would be coming with, as well. At the moment, he was planning to teach voice and piano in the house he would share with his new wife.

It had nearly shocked Christine out of her chair when Zeke had proposed to Zina, and even more so when Zina immediately accepted. She could not understand exactly what all had changed between the two of them, but they were certainly happy and would continue to be elsewhere.

Michelle had quit her job in the shop and, with Samuel's blessing, returned to Paris. She wrote Christine that she had found her lost lover quite by accident one day while sipping coffee outside the opera, which, Christine understood, was being rebuilt. They, too, were to be married, and Christine was to be a bridesmaid. Even more exciting, Michelle had given her address in London to Meg Giry, and Meg had surprised her with a letter. Meg and her mother had opened a dance studio after the fire and were now doing quite well. Meg had several suitors chasing her around and a lovely apartment overlooking the Seine. Madame was living in a house with several other widows and apparently, the three of them were quite the merry lot.

The one thing that had not changed was her relationship with Erik. He continued to send her letters of love and adoration from afar and to find reasons that the two of them could not meet. Archie was running dry on excuses for his friend, and even Zina said that their affair could not continue forever. Christine vowed that, when the time came for her to leave London for Venice, if she had not yet met with Erik, she planned to tell him everything and leave the decision up to him whether to stop their correspondence or to meet her in the city of water.

Today, however, Christine forced all these thoughts from her head as she boarded the train to Russia with Zina and Zeke. Zina was chattering away about St. Petersburg and all they would see there, even though it was bound to be buried under a foot of snow before they left. Christine didn't mind, though, that there would be snow. She thought it would be exciting to see what the Russian winter was like. Zina thought she was crazy.

Staring out the window, Christine was rather uneasy to be in France, even if it was only on a train. The ferry had taken them across the channel, and they had boarded a train in Calais that would take them to Russia. The Flanders countryside was much as she could remember seeing it when she had been younger, but the thought of her childhood did nothing to cheer her up. There was little in France that was not painful to remember. She had briefly seen a short article in a paper several months ago that the murder of the Viscount de Chagny of Paris remained unsolved and a statement from one of his sisters stated that there was a reward for any information on his death or the whereabouts of his wife, Christine, who had vanished without a trace just before his death.

Christine knew it wasn't true, and that Raoul's sister was merely shielding the fact that she believed, as did the entire family, that her brother had committed suicide. She had always been, first and foremost, a de Chagny, and that meant keeping up appearances. Aurélie had known that her brother was an abusive husband, but, as she had cared little for Christine, she had done nothing to stop him. She had laughed outright when Christine had tried to appeal to her once, saying that she was merely weak and that if she would get on her hands and knees and do as she was told, she would not have nearly as many problems.

"What in God's name is wrong with you?"

Zina's voice shook Christine from her thoughts and her head snapped around to look at her blond friend. "What?"

Zina's eyes narrowed. "You've been staring out that window for the last half hour and you haven't heard a word I said about the wedding."

"Neither have I," Zeke muttered. His retort earned him an elbow in the arm, and he scowled at his fiancée. "It's all you ever talk about anymore! You make me want to elope and be done with it. I just want to marry you—I could care less about the ceremony."

The scowl on Zina's face melted to a loving smile, and she gazed lovingly down at him as he shifted to rest his head in her lap. She toyed with his hair as she looked back up at Christine. "Well?" What's the matter?"

Christine shook her head. "I have so few happy memories of France," she said softly. "My father died here. My husband died here."

"You burnt down an opera house here," Zeke teased.

Christine threw a peanut from the paper sack on her lap at him. He caught it, shelled it, and popped the meat in his mouth, giving her a roguish smile.

The three of them were quiet for a long time until Christine announced that she was going to eat before she retired to her cabin. She bid them farewell and headed off to the dining car. As she munched a salad with chicken and nuts, Christine let her mind wander back into dangerous territory as she thought of Raoul and the decline of their marriage. She still hoped, sometimes, that she would wake up back in the opera house dormitory and find that it had all been a terrible dream before wandering to the chapel to have a lesson with her Angel. She knew, though, that it was terribly naive to think this, but it did not stop her from hoping.

Christine's deluxe cabin was as plush as one could ask for on a train, and her small bed was relatively comfortable. She climbed in, tucking sheets and blankets around her and she fell asleep dreaming of labyrinths and men with green eyes that bore into her soul.

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Erik climbed down from the taxi with a pounding headache that nearly matched his general annoyance at the situation in which he currently found himself. The ride had been much longer than it should have been—frequent stops at various borders showed that not all was as well as the French government wanted them to think. There was no trouble, but there certainly was suspicion in some places of anything that had come from France. As many of the people on the train were not even French, searches for spies on the train seemed silly. The war with Prussia had been over for years, but there was still suspicion.

Now, Erik was worried that Christine may have arrived before him. He had left several days before she was to leave with Zina and her new fiancé, but the frequent stops could have thrown him off. As he entered the hotel, he looked around. It certainly was everything he had expected. The Grand Hotel Europe booked itself as the grandest luxury hotel in Europe. After checking himself in at the front desk and into room 317, Erik made his way to his third floor suite, which he had made sure was at the opposite end of the hotel from where Christine would be staying.

For the time that he would be here, he had hired a Russian maid, having given George and Abby the time off to spend Christmas together. Anya Korovin was a married woman in her mid-thirties, the wife of a trombone player for the opera house in St. Petersburg. He had met the woman quite by accident on the train when her husband's new trombone, which they had purchased in France, had gone missing. Panicked, the pair of them had darted from compartment to compartment on the train and Erik, feeling the pain of the young musician who had just spent a small fortune on a new instrument, had offered to help look. It turned out not to be missing at all, but to have just been moved. Feeling a small amount of pity on the couple, who seemed to be struggling financially, Erik had offered to hire Ivan's wife as a maid for the two months he would be in town.

Now, Anya was chattering happily as she unpacked Erik and put away his clothes and belongings. He sipped wine while he familiarized himself with his surroundings. The rooms were vast and ornate, and the furniture was the finest in plush comfort. Still, though, it felt cold and empty. To know that Christine could be so near to him and that he could not speak to her pained him more than he had imagined that it would. He would rather jump into the North Sea in December, though, than miss her international debut. Glancing at his pocket watch, he saw that it was past time for Anya to return home.

Seeing that it was now nearly dark outside, he turned to his temporary maid. "Would you like me to escort you?" he asked in Russian.

Anya glanced out the window before she nodded and smiled. "I would appreciate it." Putting his trunk at the end of the bed, she looked around. "Would you like for me to return tomorrow?"

Erik shook his head. "Not tomorrow. The day after. But I will pay you the agreed on amount," he added quickly as her face fell a bit.

Her face brightened again and she continued to chat his ear off as he walked with her back down the stairs and out into the street.

"And while you're here, you simply must see the cathedrals," she said excitedly. "And the domes! The architecture, Baron McLeod, it's amazing!"

At the mention of his trade, Erik paid a bit more attention. He had nearly forgotten the domes. Following Anya's finger, he could see a golden dome that shined brightly in the reflecting street lights.

"That's St. Isaac's," she said. "Granted, it's nothing to St. Basil's, but things are a little different in Moscow." She made a slight face. "It's still beautiful, though. Sometimes, things are the most beautiful when they have a limited amount of flair."

The ride to Anya's flat didn't take very long, and when they were arrived, Erik was somewhat saddened to see how small and shady it was. Musicians certainly didn't live a good life. As Anya climbed down, Erik fished several rubles out of his pocket and pressed them into her hand. Her eyes widened when she saw the money.

"No, it's fine," she stammered. "I—"

Erik shook his head. "Take it," he said softly. "Make sure you get a good meal tomorrow before work. Both of you."

She was still staring down at the money in her hands as she walked slowly into her building, and Erik waited until he saw a light on upstairs. Tapping his cane on the roof of the carriage, he leaned back in his seat and looked out the window as the carriage trundled back off. His eyes were once again drawn to the golden dome of St. Isaac's, and Erik soon found himself wandering down the street toward it. Evening mass seemed to have just finished, and a number of people were leaving the church. Erik walked through them and inside.

He was nearly overwhelmed when he looked around and thought about how much work must have gone into the making of this church. It was beautiful...

His stomach rumbled, and Erik glanced down at his pocket watch. Frowning, he saw that it was much later than he thought. He turned and exited the cathedral, vowing to come back in the morning...

Christine rose slowly from her knees, crossing herself as she turned to leave. Certainly the hotel wouldn't serve dinner all night. Next to her, Zina began to wrap up in her coat, but Christine's eyes were stuck on the entrance to the sanctuary. She could have sworn there had been someone there—a man.

Shaking her head, Christine wrapped up and followed Zina outside...

He couldn't have missed her if he had tried. He hadn't been looking for her, but as she exited the church, his eyes found her immediately. Quickly, he swung back behind a lamp post to avoid being seen.

She was absolutely beautiful, and his heart ached as he watched her leave with Zina. Her hair was hanging free around her shoulders, and her wild curls bounced as she walked, presumably, back to the hotel. Under her cloak, she wore a midnight blue velvet dress that complimented her perfectly, and Erik was forced to restrain himself from running at her. Instead, he watched as she climbed into a cab and was gone...

Christine had the familiar feeling of being watched, and as she rode away with Zina, she knew that the Baron had followed them to St. Petersburg, and she felt her heart warm with the thought that he was watching over her.

_A/n More soon! We're nearing the final haul of school, followed by a mass movement and a visit to a Chicago bar with my soon to be "old" roommate before going back to the grind stone. Between all this, I will try to update._


	17. Chapter 16

**CHAPTER 16**

Zinadia's Aspicia was highly praised throughout St. Petersburg. Nearly the second it opened, her picture was all over the fronts of papers, billing her return as a proud daughter of the city. It was all she could do not to get a thick skull, but Zeke managed to keep her feet firmly on the ground.

Looking at him from across the room, Zina still wasn't sure when she had fallen so deeply in love with him. Someitmes, she still felt as if she had woken up and realized that he was perect for her. He was certainly annoying, sometimes overbearing, and usually a bit more energetic that she thought necessary, but he was the man she wanted to marry. No man had ever made her laugh like he did. She was in love, and oblivious.

But not too much so.

Christine's performance in _Boris Godunov_ was to open tonight, and there had been a great deal of discussion in the ratistic community at the use of a Sweedish born French woman in a Russian opera. However, her reputation preceeded her, and it was with great excitment that so many turned out in the cold and snow to see her perform for the tsar and his wife.

Still, even in the crowd, with a top hat pulled down over his face, the Bron McLLoed was not difficult to miss. Tonight, he was unaccompanied, which spoke volumes to Zina, who knew his reputation as a womanizer and knew that, even though many of his old habits had died off, he still enjoyed the presence of a woman. Not even his butler or maid could be seen, and when there was no woman, one of them usually accompanied him. He looked devilishly handsome in his tuxedo and Zina watched the women that stared at him as he passed. He had eyes for none of them, and she ducked behind a pillar as not to be seen when he passed by.

She would be quite for now, but for the sake of Christine's mental well-being, she knew that she would have to tell her friend later.

Zina adjusted her dress, which was the finest in Russian fashion, and was on par with what the tsarina herself was wearing. She picked up the white train that peaked out from under the golden fabric before adjusting her hair and heading back to her box, grabbing a glass of champagne as she went.

Back in the box, Zeke was looking over a program while, next to him, the Grand Duchess Maria was chattering away at a man she recognized as the Duke of Edinburgh, the husband of the Grand Duchess. She curtsied deeply, and smiled at Maria.

"How do I find you tonight, your highness?"

"Oh, lovely!" She clapped her hands together. "I'm so happy to be here! I've had enough of those drab European composers that Alfred is so fond of! I am so very tired of London. It is so lovely to be home!" Heaving a dramatic sigh, she fanned herself as she leaned back in her seat and took a sip of her champagne. "You were the only bit of Russia I had there and now you're leaving." She pouted pretily. "Can't you stay?"

Zina gave her a gracious smile. "You flatter me, majesty. But I have promised myself to Venice."

"Then Alfred and I will visit you there." The Grand Duchess's smile was brilliant. "You are truly a wonderful example of a master of Russian ballet. Your performance here was nothing less than what I expected."

Blushing, Zina sipped her champagne. The Duke seemed to sense her discomfort. "My dear Zina, what do you hear of our mutual friend, the Baron McLeod?"

"I have not spoken with him recently," she said, her eyes wandering around the auditorium as she tried to find him. "He is here somewhere, though."

"McLeod?" Alfred twisted around in his chair excitedly. "I wanted to speak with him about the townhouse."

"He's there." Maria pointed a gloved finger toward a box on the opposite side of the auditorium. "Is he alone?"

Alfred's eyes narrowed. "Don't get any ideas, my dear."

Maria rolled her eyes. At that moment, there was a knock on their door, and their doorman opened it. He nearly tripped over himself as the tsar himself entered.

"Papa!" Maria flew from her chair and into her father's arms. She beamed up at him. "You're so early!"

The smile on Tsar Alexander's face made him look ten years younger as he squeezed his daughter tighter to him. "I wanted to see my Maria before I am forced into the 'hellos' and 'how-do-you-dos.'" He held her at arm's length and studied her with a slight frown. "You're pale. Are you unwell?"

Waving a dismissive hand, Maria shook her head. "It is only the lack of sunlight in London. It's so dreary there, papa. I missed St. Petersburg so much all summer long! The only bit of sunlight I can count on there is Zina."

Upon the mention of the ballerina, the tsar's gaze shifted to the blond woman who had risen respectfully upon his entrance. He held out a hand, and Zina took it, bowing deeply until she felt the tug on her hand that signaled her to rise. The tsar's eyes sparkled as he spoke. "You were simply marvelous on the stage, Miss Belogrov. We are all so proud to have you on the international stage. I hear you have been offered the position as prima ballerina at La Fenice." He nodded approvingly. "It is a comfort to know that the Italians know talent when they see it."

Deeply honored, Zina's face colored as she once again curtsied. "Thank you, your majesty. I am honored that you think so highly of me."

He smiled and his gaze turned. "And who is this quite young man?"

Zeke bowed deeply, as had Zina. "I am Ezekiel Lewis, sir, formerly of the London opera."

"Formerly?"

"I plan to leave for Venice with Zina and Katrin. I was the lead bass for three seasons, but if I plan to marry Zina, I must leave with them."

"Ah, women." The tsar smiled. "We'd follow them round the world. Imagine if women ran the world." He laughed boomingly and Zina supressed the twinge of annoyance she felt at his words. "You'll excuse me, Maria, I must go see to your brother."

She looked around again. "Where is Sasha? I haven't seen him all night."

"Oh, he's around. Shouldn't bee too hard to find—he's a big boy." He bowed briefly and left.

"Has he always followed Sasha around so?" Alfred asked as they settled themselves in their seats.

"Not when he was a child, but that's because papa spent so much more time with Nixa." She sighed sadly and crossed herself.

No sooner had they settled themselves when the door open and a little boy rushed in and climbed into Maria's lap. "Mother said if I was very good I could sit with you."

Maria squealed with delight. "You've grown so, Nicky! I hardly recognize you now!"

At that moment, the lights dimmed and Nicky was shushed into silence as the prologue began. Admittedly, Zina drowsed through most of the first act, but at Chritine's entrance, she sta up straight.

She looked every bit the part of a sixteenth century Russian princess. Zina knew that her friend was nervous, but it did not show in any step she took. When she began to sing, the audience grew very quite. When she finished her aria, it was at least five minutes before the cast were able to continue. Glancing over, Zina frowned when she did not see Erik applauding with everyone else. She could just see a glimmer of white in the shadows—otherwise, she would have had no idea he was even there.

Yes, she was going to have to talk to Christine. But better to wait, Zina decided, as the show continued, until Christine had calmed down from the high she was going to be on after tonight.

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Christine couldn't sleep. The end of her run on the Russian stage had come, and in two weeks she would return to London before leaving for Venice. The papers had praised her highly, saying that she was the finest, clearest voice to have been heard on that stage in years. Mussorgsky himself had called on her a week into the run to sing her praises in person.

But still, there was no sigh of Erik. She only knew he was there when she overheard Zina and the Duke of Edinburgh talking at the party after the opening.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried hard to block the tears that seemed to have come from nowhere. Knowing she needed to get out, she rose from bed and dressed before heading out to walk the halls of the luxerious hotel.

The hallway were deserted, "Do Not Disturb" signs hanging from many of the doors. Reaching the stairs, Christine slowly descended, running her hand along the polished banister. Upon reaching the ground floor, Christine looked out the front door and saw that it was snowing. Wrapping up in her cloak, she stepped just outside the door. She waited until she saw a cab come down the street, and she waved her hand. The man stopped, and she gave him the address of her destination. Upon their arrival, she asked him to wait, saying that she would pay him double and that she would not be long.

The church was still open, thankfully. She made her way inside and knelt at the front. Bowing her head, she let herself weep as she let memories flood her. She remembered the way she had felt in Erik's arms and how terrified she had been. She remembered her wedding—the beautiful, beaded and jeweled gown she had worn, and how handsome Raoul had been. She remembered the first time he had yelled at her, had hit her, had raped her. She remembered the empty feeling of her first miscarriage. Then the second. The third. The forth, with Erik's child...

Then she remembered the rush she had felt singing on stage, just as Erik had taught her. Remembered the feeling of his eyes burning her skin, even though she wasn't sure he was even there. She felt safe even now with the memory that, even if he was breaking her heart, he was still watching over her.

Fifteen minutes later, she left the church. The snow was still falling as she climbed back into the carriage as it trundled off toward the hotel again. Resting her head on the cold glass, she closed her eyes, not sleeping, but not wanting to see the beauty outside.

The ride to the hotel seemed to take less time than it had before, and she was soon paying the driver the promised double, and he was pulling away down the street, disappearing into a sea of black and white.

She stared after him for a long time, undisturbed by the doorman who shivered outside, waiting for her to come in. She was just getting ready to turn to go back inside when the door opened again and she heard the doorman greet someone.

"Got a light?"

Her heart stopped.

"Yes, sir, right here."

"Thank you." A match was struck and lit but she couldn't smell the sulfur. "Care for one? I'll bet you've been out here all night."

She couldn't breathe.

"Thank you, sir." Another match was lit.

There was silence for at least a minute before she heard a low whisper. "What's her deal?"

"No clue, sir. Just climbed down from a cab and has been standing there for ten minutes or so." The doorman raised his voice. "You alright ma'am?"

Her mouth opened but no sound came out. She could feel herself begin to shake.

"Miss?"

Footsteps were coming closer to her. Oh, God...

"What's the matter?"

He stopped right behind her. For a moment she thought he was going to turn and go back inside, and she bowed her head, still shaking. She nearly passed out when she felt the hand on her shoulder.

He turned her gently to face him, but she kept her head down.

"What is it, child?"

She stared down at her feet and at the snow before she realized that she wasn't breathing. Then the world went black.

_a/n Please. PLEASE don't kill me... I'm not old enough to die._

_This chapter was so much fun to write! I did not invent any of the following people. They were as follows... Her Royal and Imperal Highness, Maria Alexandrovna, Grand Duchess of Russia; His Royal Highness, Alfred, Duke of Edinburgh; Tsar Alexander II; (later) Tsar Alexander III (mentioned—as Sasha); tsarevich Nicholas Alexandrovich (ment. As Nixa); Maria Feodorovna (later, Empress Consort of Russia); Nicky (later, Tsar Nicholas II). I found out they were all (with the exception of Nicholas Alexandrovich, who is referred to in death) alive at the same time and it was too much fun to make them all little characters. Those people were REAL! So cool!_

_Sorry._

_Leave me love and reviews!_


	18. Chapter 17

**CHAPTER 17**

It felt like drowning, or falling—he still wasn't sure which. There was absolutely no escaping the situation in which he currently found himself. The woman who had once been his lover sat across from him, calmly sipping tea and hiding her exhaustion, but Erik knew that the second he tried to leave, he would be held back.

Several hours earlier, Erik had been outside when Christine had literally fallen into his arms. What she had been doing outside, he had no idea. He had not known it was her when he had turned her around. Her hood had concealed her hair and most of her face, but when she had collapsed in his arms, it had tumbled back and he had been too shocked to breathe at the sight of her pale face, lovely even as she fell.

After telling the doorman that the woman was a friend and that he would help her back to her room, Erik carried Christine inside. As carefully as he could, he had eased open the door and entered. Inside, he found Zinaida biting her nails as she paced. Her head had snapped toward him and her eyes widened at the sight of the unconscious Christine. Wordlessly, he had rested her on the bed before turning to go. At the door, Zina blocked his way, her arms crossed over her chest and her feet spread. She would not budge, and when Erik had moved to lift her, she had seized his wrist, twisted it, and forced him back inside while squeezing at a pressure point in his neck.

Five escape attempts in three hours had made two things clear to him: there was no escaping Christine seeing him, and Zina was proof that size did not matter.

A clink of china brought him back to the present to find Zina looking at him. She was smiling at him in a manner that looked relatively disinterested, as if she were trying to be polite by laughing at some bad joke. Only her blue eyes gave her away, which were like chips of stinging ice. They did not blink as they looked at him and they grew more and more angry the longer he looked back. She was clearly furious, although he truly had no idea why. She had said virtually nothing to him since he had arrived, although he had tried to distract her with conversation. Uncomfortable, he looked with forced interest at the artwork decorating Christine's suite.

"Do you know what you have done to her?"

Erik jumped. Zina's voice was soften than he had ever heard it. It had an air of very forced calm, but there was still a lacing of rage just underneath it. He was too unsettled to reply.

"Do you know how you have hurt her?" Zina stirred her tea, her gave never faltering. "The torture she has gone through at your hand—does that please you, Baron McLeod?"

Erik flinched at the use of his title. She always, even after their seperation, called him Erik. He shook his head, looking down at his hands."

She stood so suddenly that he jumped again and shrank back a bit in his chair. Her face had gone from looking calm to showing the fury that had boiled just below the surface. She seemed ready to destroy him when there was a soft moan from the other room. Zina's gaze snapped up, and she quickly dragged Erik into Christine's bedroom, shutting the door and sitting him in a chair opposite it. She rushed to her friend's side, brushing her hair back and dabbing at her face with a damp cloth. Christine's eyes fluttered open. She looked up at Zina for a moment before her gaze lowered.

Immediately, brown met green. Erik was not sure how long they stared at each other before she spoke.

"I knew you were here," she whispered. "I could feel it." Her face was relatively blank, and her voice was a bit fuzzy—she still seemed a bit dazed from her fainting spell. "You caught me outside, didn't you?"

He could not find his voice to respond—he was speechless beneath the gaze of her chocolate eyes—so he nodded.

Her face was still blank—perhaps it was shock. "You are Baron McLeod."

Erik did not know how she knew this, but he nodded again. This time, he had the strenght to choke out a response. "I will desist writing you at once. I am sorry to have upset you."

He rose to go, but her voice stopped him. "Don't," she said softly.

Looking back, he saw that her eyes were closed and she seemed to have fallen back asleep. She was certianly still delerious. Quickly, before Zina had the chance to stop him, he rushed from the hotel room.

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Christine smile as she rolled over. Finally, the day had come when she would wake up and see Erik.

Pulling on her gown and sliding into her slippers, Christine made her way out of the bedroom. The living area was deserted, and Christine frowned. Thinking Erik had perhaps left her a note, she glanced around. A bright smile filled her face when she laid eyes on a folded piece of paper. She opened it hurriedly and read its contents...

_Christine,_

_Erik gone. Desk said gone, early morning. Checking train station. Back later._

_Zina_

She was sure she was dying. Her heart was clenching, her ears ringing, her eyes failing her...

_They had to be failing her..._

Christine did not know how long she sat on the floor with tears dripping onto the note in her hands. Eventually, she heard voices as someone entered the room. She knew Zina was talking to her, but she could not answer.

Then, a pair of strong arms lifted her up and carried her. A familiar scent filled her nostrils, and she grasped Archie's shirt in her fists as he took her back to bed. When she did not let go, he curled up next to her, pressing kisses against her hair ans whispering comforts into her ear. She eventually stopped crying, but she did not let him go.

"I'm sorry, Christine," he murmured. "I'm so sorry."

She sniffed. "Why did he leave?"

Archie shook his head. "I don't know. I saw George in London and he said Erik came here, so I got on the next boat to the train. I just got here this morning."

"Take me home, Archie." She snuggled into his chest, feeling safe as he tightened his grip around her. "I just want to go home."

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It was over. He knew that there was no chance of ever seeing Christine again. Archie had visited him several days ago, stopping by only to give Erik his best roundhouse punch to the jaw before storming off to his uncle's home. It had been hours before the swelling to his face had gone down, and Erik thought that he had never looked worse. One side of his face was scarred permanantly, while the other was swollen and black and blue.

Now, Erik massaged his jaw where Archie had punched him—it was still a bit sore—while sipping a brandy with his cigar. A scowl was permanantly etched onto his face, and he frowned more deeply as Abby scowled back playfully.

"Cheer up, sir, it's nearly Christmas!" She handed him the day's mail. "Maybe you'll find yourself a card."

"I'm sure," he growled. "The only person who sends me Christmas cards is Archie."

Abby beamed at him as he glanced down at the mail. Indeed, there was what appeared to be a Christmas card on the top of the pile. Opening it, he saw that it was from Abby and accompanied by a message to cheer up and a promise of an amazing Christmas feast.

He forced a smile as she bustled around the room, tidying things around him. Setting her card aside, Erik flipped through the rest of the mail, expecting nothing spectacular.

Then, there it was.

His fingers shook as he tore the envelope carefully, sliding out the paper within.

_Dear sir,_

_It is my understanding that our correspondance has ended. Mr. Palmer has informed me of your refusal to leave your home and, as I feel sure that we shall never meet again, I feel the need to write this, my final letter, to you._

_Please understand that I am not suffering a concussion or any form of dementia. I am perfectly healthy and my mind is clear. I know of what I speak, and I would appreciate your taking this into consideration as you read the following._

_I have known of your identity for much longer than you realize. That night in St. Petersburg was not when I realized that it was you, my former teacher, who had been writing to me. It was several months ago in London on the occasion that you visited Mr. Palmer and I overheard you speaking with your valet._

_I had hoped that you would reveal yourself to me in time and had resolved to tell you that I knew of your secret at a certain time if you did not choose to meet me. However, fate intervened as she so often does and we met in St. Petersburg._

_The letters I wrote to you after discovering your identity were not fabricated. The feelings I expressed were true. The pain of your constant refusal at that time wounded me more than you could possibly realize. I knew that you knew you were writing to me and you made me feel as if you did not want me._

_I cannot allow you to take all of the blame. We were both at fault._

_Please do not fear that I will ever interfere with your life again. I shall be leaving soon for Italy._

_I had hoped to tell you, face to face, the truth of my husband's fate. He died at my hand after years of abuse. My thoughts in my most miserable times with him were all of you._

_Know that I love you now and always._

_Yours eternally,_

_Christine  
_

Although she was not here, Erik's ears were ringing with the sound of her soft voice. His fingers traced the marks on the page where her tears had fallen. The reason for Archie's rage was now clear. Erik put Christine's letter aside and burried his face in his hands. Breifly, he thought of going to her. Then he remembered Italy.

It was too late.

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Christine leaned over the railing. They would arrive in Venice tonight, and she would start over. The cold breeze brushed her hair back from her face. Her choice to take a longer boat ride as opposed to the train was paying off. The first night on the boat, she had cried herself to sleep. The next few days became gradually better.

Archie had wanted to come with her, but Christine had assured him that she would befine.

"This is something I need to do for myself," she had said softly, resting a reassuring hand on his arm. "I need to be alone on the way there so that I'm used to it when I arrive."

"You won't be alone," he'd replied. "You'll make new friends."

A sad smile had crossed her face. "I know. But you know what I mean."

Now, the lights of Venice were bright in the distance as the boat made its way slowly into the city and Christine turned to make her way back to her cabin, where a steward was waiting for her.

"We'll be docking within the hour, miss," he said politely. "Shall I begin moving your trunks?"

Sighing softly, Christine nodded. "Yes, please," she said.

Forty five mintues later, Christine was climbing down onto the boardwalk. Looking around, she realized that she had no idea what the person meeting her looked like. She only knew that it was her new butler and possibly his wife.

There were few people on the dock at this time of night and most of them were embracing friends and loved ones as they disembarked. No one made for Christine, and it was twenty minutes or so before she caught sight of a man standing at the far edge of the dock. He was dressed in black and a fedora was low over his face. He carried a walking stick and, even though he was looking down and slouching slightly, she could see that he was tall and broad shouldered.

Hesitantly, she made her way over to him. "Signor Ricci?"

The man nodded, and Christine stepped closer. He seemed to be shaking slightly. "Signor Ricci? Are you alright?"

He nodded slightly and gestured to a gondola parked nearby. He cleared his throat and seemed to attempt to speak, but for some reason, was unable. Frowning slightly, Christine climbed into the little boat and closed her eyes sleepily as the boat glided down canals that passed for streets.

_A/n A horrible spot to stop, I know, but alas, I have to keep you reading. I'm in the process of moving and getting started with summer classes and teaching lessons, so updates may be slow. Don't worry, I won't develop obsessions with any of my students. They're far too young and I have my dream man already. Love you—leave a review!_


	19. Chapter 18

_a/n I hope you are all ready for a giggle, as there is a bit of comic relief in this chapter. Enjoy!_

**CHAPTER 18**

Vito Ricci and his wife, Lucia, were two of the most wonderful people Christine had ever met. When she had first awoken and gone down to breakfast, she had found Lucia setting out a wonderful breakfast for her of fruit, coffee, and frittatas, which Christine quickly became fond of. She felt safe in her home knowing that the pair of them were just upstairs at night and around the house during the day.

Vito was the kind of man who moved with more grace than he looked as if he could achieve. He reminded Christine of a lumberjack with his broad shoulders and chest, strong arms, and wide frame. His eyes were a gentle green that were full of laughter and kindness and after only three months, he was already fiercely protective of Christine and took great care to ensure her safety as a single woman in a foreign country.

Lucia was quite possibly the most beautiful woman Christine had ever seen in her life. A fairly young woman in her late twenties, she had a deep, olive skin and jet black hair that reached down the length of her back when it was free. Her eyes were the most striking thing about her—they were violet blue. They pierced through lies and told stories without her ever speaking. She was fluent in French and English, as well as Italian and her native Sicilian. She was an amazing cook, and Vito had assured Christine that she would never want to leave Italy, simply because of his wife's cooking.

After three months in Venice, Christine was finally feeling as if she were getting the feel of the city. Every morning, Vito took her to the opera house in a gondola. He would return at midday with a homemade lunch from Lucia and would return again in the evening to take her home.

Today, Christine was running a bit late and was worried that Vito might have thought that she had left early. As she bid farewell to the other cast members, Christine hurriedly threw on her cloak and rushed outside. Vito was nowhere to be seen. There was only a man pacing back and forth on the edge of the dock and a pair of chorus girls giggling as they shared a pastry of some sort.

As she turned to go back inside to find someone to escort her home, her eye was caught on the man pacing the edge of the canal. He seemed to be having an argument with himself. His clothes, which were finely cut and certainly the highest of Parisian fashion, were slightly out of place since there was no show tonight. He wore a black cloak and a top hat that was pulled low, and black gloves covered his hands from the cool evening air. As the light from the lamp hit him, Christine gasped in shock.

It couldn't be...

Behind her, she heard Vito's voice say, "There you are, Signora. I've been looking for you everywhere—"

She barely heard him as she stormed toward the man, who was still pacing. He glanced up at the opera house and when he saw her coming at him, held up his hands, trying to ward off her rage. Her fist connected with his jaw and he stumbled backward slightly from the impact, still backing away from her.

"How dare you!" Christine had never heard her own voice as shrill as it sounded now. "You refuse me again and again and then just show up in Venice? Who do you think you are?" She poked a finger into his firm chest, squashing the desire she felt as her hand made the contact. "What do you think I am going to say to you? That I forgive you? Just like that? You can think again, my _friend_," she sneered. "I will _never_ forgive—"

"Careful, Signora!"

Vito's warning came to late, and for the first time in her presence, Erik lost his marvelous balance as his heel went over the edge of the dock. As he went tumbling backward and into the canal, Christine's eyes widened. Instinctively, he reached out to grab her for balance, and though she tried to step away, he was able to catch the corner of her cloak. With a scream, the pair of them toppled into the canal.

As she resurfaced, she flailed about for anything solid. Her hand once again connected with Erik's face, and he let out a shout of indignation as she latched onto his neck.

"Look what you did!" she shrieked.

"What I did?" Erik spat water from his face. "You pushed me!"

"I didn't push you, you fell!"

"I fell because you—"

"Signora!"

It was Vito. Pushing away from Erik, she reached for his hands and allowed him to pull her up. Quickly, he shed his jacket and draped it around her shoulders before turning to frown at the man pulling himself back up onto the dock.

"Vito, would you excuse Baron McLeod and I for just a few minutes?" she asked politely.

When he had returned inside, Christine rounded on the dripping Erik. "What the hell is the matter with you?"

"The matter with me?" He shook water furiously from himself. "I said nothing to you and you just attacked me!"

"Exactly! You never say anything to me! Ever!"

"That's not true!"

Christine's mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out. Her fists were balling at her sides, and Erik seemed to realize how furious she was, and took a step backward.

"Four months!" Her voice was now higher than ever, and the pair of chorus girls had stopped chattering to watch them. "Four months and not a word! You knew exactly where I was and you—"

"I've been here for four months!"

Christine froze, her hands stiff at her sides and her mouth still open slightly. Before she could say another word, he took three steps toward her and crushed her into his arms, pressing his lips against hers. For a moment, she struggled against him, but then she was kissing him back. His hand cradled her head and tilted it up as the other wrapped more tightly still around her waist. Her arms came up to wrap around his neck, and for several minutes, they stood wrapped around each other until a throat cleared nervously behind them. They leapt apart and Christine turned to see Vito smiling nervously at her.

"I don't mean to interrupt, Signora, but Lucia has dinner waiting for you."

Christine could feel her face turning red. "Yes," she said quickly. "Yes, of course. I suppose..." She looked at Erik, unable to quite meet his eyes. "I suppose you are otherwise occupied this evening."

Glancing down at his dripping clothes, he replied, "I would need to go to my hotel and change clothes."

"He could borrow something of mine," Vito chimed in.

Before either of them could say another word, the butler was ushering them into the gondola parked nearby. Sitting shoulder to shoulder, Erik could feel Christine shivering with cold. Hesitantly, he wrapped an arm around her shoulders. She smiled shyly and leaned a bit closer to him.

Thirty minutes later, Christine was frantically searching for a dress to wear. Erik would have changed by now and would certainly be waiting for her at dinner. Finally settling on a purple dress that enhanced her bosom, she dressed quickly before hurrying downstairs.

When she entered the dining room, Erik rose from his seat. He was dressed in one of Vito's nicest suits and his hair was still damp. She felt her knees weaken as he led her to her seat, pulling out the chair for her and seating her before resuming his seat. They were silent as Lucia brought out their food. The maid smiled mischievously, her violet eyes alight with laughter.

Erik was still staring oddly at his plate when Christine took her first bite. ""Erik?"

"What is this?"

Christine shook her head. "I can't pronounce it. It's Sicilian, though. It has tuna in it."

"Ah." Taking a small bite, Christine watched as Erik's expression changed from doubtful that the food was good to doubtful that his taste buds were working correctly. "This is wonderful!"

Smiling slightly, Christine took a sip of wine and continued with her meal. They passed the rest of the meal and dessert in silence, neither having quite enough courage to speak to the other about the heaviness in the air between them. When the plates had been cleared, Christine was trying to figure out what to say when Lucia came to the rescue, ushering them into the privacy of the parlor and some sherry.

As Christine sipped her drink, she sighed softly, not sure where to begin. The words that tumbled out of her mouth were as sincere as they were comical. "I'm sorry I pushed you into the canal."

Erik chuckled softly and Christine relaxed a bit. "It's quite alright, my dear. I can honestly say I have never been pushed into a Venetian canal before. I suppose there is a first time for everything."

Feeling her face flushing a bit, Christine distracted herself by glancing around the room. The artwork hanging on the walls seemed so artificial with him in the room, and the room felt smaller, although there was certainly room for fifteen people or more inside.

"I suppose you want to know why I never said that I knew it was you," she said softly. When he did not reply, she began to speak, slowly at first, of that night at Archie's when she had heard his voice, and of the letters that followed, and the pain she felt every time he wrote of his love for her and his refusal to meet her.

His warm hands wrapped around one of hers as he brought it to his lips. "I had no idea how I had hurt you," he said quietly. "I always assumed that you would be terrified of me if ever I were to return to your life."

Christine shook her head vigorously. "Raoul was a horrible husband," she said vehemently. "He beat and raped me and the only thing that allowed me to continue on was thoughts of you. Then at Jezebel's—"

Erik leapt to his feet. "What?" He began to pace furiously. "What in God's name were you doing in that God forsaken place?"

Taking his hand, she pulled him back onto the settee. "That is another story for another time," she said. "In any case, I thought of you there, as well. And when I was on the stage, I remembered everything you ever taught me and I tried to sing as I would sing for you."

Raising his eyes, Erik stared at her for a long time before leaning forward and placing a gentle kiss on her forehead. "How can I beg for your forgiveness?" he asked softly.

Before she had the chance to answer, he pressed his lips to hers and pulled her into a deep kiss. She felt her toes curl inside her shoes and she pressed herself against him. His lips left hers to place a burning string of kisses from her ear to her chin and down her neck to her collarbone. Her head fell back as she threaded her fingers into his hair. If her face had been warm before, it was nothing to what it was now. Everything from her face to her toes was on fire.

She moaned softly as Erik reclaimed her lips, gently pushing her back onto the settee. His hand moved from her waist to her ribcage and she shuddered as it passed over her breast. Her back arched, seemingly of her own accord and, with difficulty, she pulled her lips from his.

"My forgiveness will be yours if you take me upstairs and if you are still by my side when the dawn comes," she whispered, her lips brushing against his.

His arms were strong as he swept her up into them and carried her upstairs and into oblivion.

_A/n Aaaaaaaand we're done with the dangling... Sort of... This is NOT, I repeat, NOT the end! I'm having way too much fun knocking these two into canals and having them in funny situations to end it yet. While I doubt there will be any more aqua-adventures (which I hope you enjoyed reading as much as I enjoyed writing it, which was a ton), there is still some stuff I want to tie up, maybe some sexy stuff, too. I don't know when the next update will be since classes have started and peeps at work are on vacation, so it may be slow. However, now, I no longer need fear for my life. coughs and glances nervously at Nyasia Now, if you will excuse me, I am going to go bootie shake to some oldies at the pub. I friggin' deserve it!_


	20. Chapter 19

_A/n Sorry about the lack of updates. I can only say that you should ALWAYS save your work. I had to switch gears and get into the swing of a new class, then my accompanist quit on me. I have a recital next semester. I have fifteen songs for a new accompanist to learn. I have to find one and they have to learn them in the next two months. I can't e-mail him back because I'm too pissed off at him. So, I've been a bit busy lately._

_A warning—I forgot my birth control. I'm really bouncing off the walls right now. You have been warned. Enjoy!_

**CHAPTER 19**

_Last night I fell in love with you__  
All over again__  
With more love  
Than ever before  
__For the first time in a long time  
I have really felt love._

_--excerpt from "All Over Again" by Cheryl Hornbeck_

Erik's chest rose and fell as he breathed the deep breath of sleep, but Christine could not sleep for anything. She wanted to stay awake until Erik awoke, telling her again that he loved her and would never leave her again. She knew that if she slept, he would be there when she woke, but it did not stop her from being terrified that he would once again disappear from her life.

Reaching over, Christine found Erik's watch and squinted to look at the time. It was half past three. When she put the watch back down, it gave a soft clink of metal on wood and she felt Erik stir next to her. She turned her head and was met by a pair of sleepy green eyes staring back at her. Smiling slightly at him, she slid into his open arms and sighed contentedly as he held her close, cradling her head against his chest. He pressed a kiss against her forehead before falling back asleep, and try as she might to resist it, Christine followed him and dreamed.

_She didn't recall lighting a fire in her room, but she supposed that Vito or Lucia had done it earlier in the evening. She was grateful, as her room was large and chilled in the cool nights easily this time of year. She doubted she would have been cold, in any case. There was no way to feel anything but heat rushing through her veins at the moment._

_Erik's shirt had long since been removed, and her hair had been unpinned and was flowing down her back. His fingers tangled in it as he pressed his lips against her neck. Gasping for air, Christine moaned as his lips trailed lower and lower until they traced over her bosom. She could feel his hands against her thighs, sliding further up under her dress and she nearly screamed when they brushed against the thin layer of cloth that separated that place from his hands._

_A deep chuckle sounded above her and she opened her eyes to find him smiling down at her. "Is there something you want, my dear?"_

_It was a struggle to find her voice. "I want out of this dress," she gasped. It was difficult to speak with his teeth nipping at the skin on her neck and the exposed portion of her shoulder._

_Rolling her over, Erik's magical fingers went to work on the back of her dress, and in seconds, she felt air connect with her back. Petticoat, corset, chemise, and pantalettes followed, melting from her skin like ice in the spring. Soon, almost sooner than she was prepared, she was bare before his prying eyes on the thick rug before the fire. Embarrassed, she moved her arms to cover herself, but he caught her hands with his._

"_I had to fight to get everything off," he murmured. "I want to look at my discovery." His fingers trailed down her face and to her breast. She inhaled sharply when his fingers brushed across them._

_Seconds later, his lips were almost everywhere at once, and where his lips could not be, his hands took their place. Reaching down with shaking hands, she undid his trousers, pushing them down. Gathering her courage, she rolled him onto his back and tossed the garment to the side. The only thing left were his drawers. Slowly, and what appeared to be painfully for him, she untied them, crawling down between his legs as she pulled them off._

_He was magnificent, reminiscent of a Greek god with the firelight dancing across his features. His chest was broad and chiseled, his thighs, lean and muscular, and his arms, strong and ready to hold her. They reached out for her, pulling her in against that wonderful chest. When he rolled on top of her, Christine's eyes fluttered closed with the pleasure of feeling his weight on top of her._

_His hands slid down her side, brushing against her thighs before moving between her legs. She gasped when he touched her, finding the place that made her feel pleasure—pleasure she hadn't felt from any touch other than her own in years._

_He seemed to read her thoughts. "When was the last time a man loved you?" he whispered against her ear, pressing kisses there as her back arched and she moved against his hand._

"_Too long." She could feel how close she was. "I can't remember when." Truthfully, she could think of nothing other than the pleasure he was giving her. She couldn't remember _ever _feeling like this with a man, even when things had been at their best with Raoul._

_What he did next, she was not prepared for. She had heard whispers of it in the opera house, had heard the girls speak of it at Jezebel's as the thing they wished men would do, but had never experienced it for herself. She was blinded—nothing existed but his hands, his mouth. Pleasure shot through her body and she wrapped her fingers in his hair, looking down to see his eyes staring back at her. She had to bite down on her fist to stop from screaming as he brought her to her first release of the night._

_It seemed like an eternity as she drifted in an ocean of warmth and pleasure, and she finally opened her eyes to see him looking down at her. He was running his fingers through her hair, his body flush against her own. More than slightly embarrassed, she hid her face in his chest._

"_Are you alright?"_

_Nodding, Christine looked up at him. She could feel tears, but she wasn't sure why they were there. "I want you to make love to me," she whispered._

_Erik's eyes stared back into hers as he brushed her hair away from her face. "Are you sure?"_

"_I've dreamed of you for years," she said softly, cupping his cheek with her hand. "I thought of you always, when I was in pain or embarrassed. I imagined being with you on that stage. You saved me, then. Save me now." She leaned her forehead against his. "I love you, Erik."_

_The next thing she knew was that he was inside of her, filling her like she had never felt before. She was made for this, for him. She felt truly complete for the first time in her life, and she moaned as he thrust in and out of her body. The feel of him was unlike anything she had imagined in her dreams. He was real, and he was here, with her._

_It wasn't long before she felt herself shaking again, the tidal wave coming again and she crashed. Her eyes opened in shock as she realized that he was still moving. Grinning, pleased with his stamina and his appetite for her, she pushed him onto his back, climbing on top of him and guiding him back into her again._

_His eyes, which had been closed, opened as he trailed his hands over her torso. "When did my sweet Christine become such a vixen?" he murmured. "When did she become so wanton?"_

"_I've always wanted to try something with you," she said. Carefully, she leaned back to grasp his legs just below his knees as she rocked back and forth. Moaning, she realized that he was hitting a place that was so deep inside her that she had never found it. Erik seemed to realize this, and his hand made its way to the bundle of nerves between her legs. Her eyes shot open and she screamed as she released for the third time. This time, she felt him shake beneath her, heard the amazing sounds cascade from his lips, signaling his own release. She could feel him inside her, feel the warm spurts that came from him, and she shook again._

_Hours later, they had made it to the bed and made love twice more before he fell asleep, his head cradled between her breasts and her fingers in his hair..._

Christine sat bolt upright in bed. Looking to her left, she felt her stomach drop when she realized that Erik's spot was empty. Then she saw a folded piece of paper. Opening it, she smiled, reaching for Erik's shirt, which was still lying on the floor, before making her way downstairs.

Entering the dining room, Christine smiled as she laid eyes on her lover, who smiled back as he lay plates on the table.

"Your man was quite helpful," he said, smiling. "He was very willing to go to my hotel and fetch my things for me. I gave him and his wife the day off as a reward."

"And who do you think you are, that you can order my hired help around?" she asked, her voice teasing.

"I am your lover," he said, stepping around the table to pull her into his arms. "I shall have to be heard to be respected." Pressing a kiss to her lips, pulled her a bit closer, and she lost herself for several minutes before he pulled away. "I made you breakfast."

Putting his hands on her shoulders, he led her to the table where she sat while he dished out her breakfast. It had been years since she had had such a luxurious breakfast—crepes, fresh fruit, juice, coffee with cinnamon in it, beignets, cheese, and honey butter were all set before her, along with crisp bacon. Suddenly famished, Christine tried bites of everything and once she was able to slow down, she smiled up at Erik, who was cutting into his crepes. "When did you cook all this?"

He chuckled. "I don't sleep as late as I once did," he replied, reaching over and pouring more coffee for her. "I also enjoy cooking a great deal more when I have someone else besides myself to cook for."

"It's delicious," Christine said, taking another bite of a cheese-slathered beignet. "When did you ever learn to cook?"

Erik smiled mischievously. "There are some secrets even I cannot speak of, my dear." He winked, and went back to his breakfast. "Did you sleep well?"

She nodded, taking another bite of her breakfast and smiling slightly. Reaching over, she brushed a rogue lock of hair from his face. As she pulled her hand away, he caught it between both of his, pressing his lips against it. "Why do you love me?" he mumbled against her fingers.

Christine's eyes met his. "Because you make me feel alive," she said softly.

"I love you."

Later, after they had eaten, the pair of them walked and caught up on each others lives. Christine let Erik fill in the details she did not know—his health problems, his newfound unease around women, and, what she was most interested to know, his flight from France.

"After the fire, I stayed with Giry for a few months, but the police were constantly looking for me. We all knew it was only a matter of time until they came to question her again when I was there, so I had to find somewhere else. We looked for anything, anywhere, that I could go, and when found none, I was forced to return home. We snuck me up north, across the channel and up to Scotland, where the news of the opera house was so jumbled that there was nothing to draw the parallel from there to me." Sitting down on a bench, he heaved a sigh. "A part of me was furious that I was so dependent on my inheritance, but I supposed it was better to be alone in that house than hanging from a scaffold somewhere in Paris."

Christine's stomach churned at the thought and she took his hand, squeezing tightly. "I wondered, for years, what happened to you. Raoul said you had been killed, but I found papers and correspondences in his desk that told me otherwise. That was when I began to lose my trust in him." She grew quite, thoughtful, as she thought back on her marriage. Glancing over, she saw the unasked question in the eyes of her lover, and she smiled bitterly. "I tried to ask him about it the next day. That was also around he time he started drinking. When he drank, he got angry at me, and to a lesser degree, you. He was angry that I still had feelings for you, so he tried to beat them out of me. The night he died, I was hiding in a closet when he passed out in the hallway. His mistress even offered to help me flee. I couldn't go with her, though. I couldn't flee knowing that, any corner I turned, Raoul could be there." She shook her head slowly. "I couldn't bare the thought of ever going back to the beatings and the yelling and the rape—"

"Rape?" Erik yelped. He grit his teeth. "He's lucky he's dead, or I'd—"

Christine held up a hand—she needed to finished now, or she may never be able to. "I know, darling. As I was saying, I couldn't bare the thought of going back there, so I made sure I'd never have to." Her eyes slid out of focus and a sour smile formed on her full lips. "Don't you think it's awfully convenient that he happened to shoot himself? That he suddenly felt remorse?"

Erik frowned. "I don't understand." Christine's eyebrows raised slightly and she gave him a pointed look. "Jesus," he whispered. "He didn't..."

"No, he didn't. I did."

"But there was a suicide note! I know there was—I spoke with someone who was related to one of the police at the scene—they filed it away."

"I was married to Raoul for years, Erik. I knew everything I needed to know—what his favorite paper was, where he kept his gun, and how to make my handwriting look like his. I wrote his 'suicide note' while he was passed out drunk in the hallway, packed my things, wrapped his fingers around the trigger, helped him pull, checked for a pulse, and left. I let myself off the hook when I wrote his note—I wrote that Raoul's wife had left him. I knew no one would be surprised. No one ever said anything, but I could tell by their looks of pity that all of Paris society knew what went on in our house. The words of servants spreads faster than wildfire. They never even suspected murder."

Erik stared down at his hands. He could not imagine his sweet Christine killing her husband and being able to speak of it so candidly. "You were never bothered by what you did?" he asked carefully.

She smiled sadly. "He was my greatest friend in childhood, and I killed him. I still have nightmares about it. He taunts me, even in my thoughts. I can never forget the smell of the blood and the sulfur. I ran to the Seine after and got sick. It was a month before I slept more than two hours at a time." Heaving a sigh, she put her head in her hands. "I went to confession every day for two months when I came to London. I was terrified." She raised her head enough to meet his eyes. "I want to go home, Erik. I'm so tired..."

Erik wanted to ask about Jezebel's, but he could see that she was truly exhausted. It also looked as if it were going to rain. Rising, he took her hands and pulled her to her feet, wrapping his arms around her tightly and pressing a loving kiss to her temple, before wrapping his arm around her waist and helping her home.

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Rain tapped against the cool glass of the window, but inside, the heat was enough to steam the bedroom windows. Christine felt alive for the first time in years as she and Erik made love more times than she could count. Most of the rooms in the house had been christened in the past four hours, and they had gradually made their way back to the bedroom. Her head tilted back and she felt Erik's hands on her back as he rocked into her. His lips were like butterflies on the bare skin of her back, which was damp with perspiration. Never in her life had anyone made love to her with as much passion as Erik, and she felt herself crumbling as his hands worked magic on her body. She had lost count of how many times they had made love, of how many kisses he had given her, of how many times he had brought her to her peak, how many times he had told her he loved her, and her mind went blank yet again as stars exploded behind her eyes. Moments later, she felt him follow her and they collapsed together onto the bed. Christine smiled as he wrapped around her from behind.

"I am not going to be able to walk tomorrow. I shall be a mess at rehearsal."

A deep chuckle vibrated into her. "I may have to come watch."

At some point, they fell asleep. It was dark and the rain was still falling when she awoke several hours later, and she could hear the piano playing several rooms down. Pulling the sheet around her, Christine made her way slowly to the music room. Erik was at the piano in only pants, his fingers working the keys and his eyes closed. She sat down next to him and the next thing she knew, his arms were around her. She giggled as he hoisted her up onto the flattened stand, working his way into her makeshift robe and taking her away yet again.

_a/n Whew! Hope you enjoyed that. Another chapter or two and I'm done. I'm crazy busy with tons of reading and a project to do, so I'll update when I can. Peace!_


	21. Chapter 20

**CHAPTER 20**

Having a man constantly in the house, one that shared her bed at night and her house during the day, was something that Christine was having to get used to. Erik had set up camp in her little-used office, and was working on blueprints most days when Christine came home for lunch. Every evening, without fail, he would be waiting for her outside the opera to escort her home, where dinner would be waiting. At night, they talked, sipped wine, laughed, made love. Each morning, he was at her side when she woke, his hair ruffled from sleep and, sometimes, snoring softly. She would rise, kissing him softly, before dressing. Usually by the time she was finished with her hair, he would be pulling on his day clothes.

Over the months that followed, Erik set up an office in town, and was constantly speaking of the challenges of building anything in a city that was sinking. Much of what he did was reconstruction, which he seemed to enjoy. He often spoke of how he enjoyed seeing how builders, sometimes hundreds of years ago, did their work.

Still, though, there was a sadness in his eyes when he looked out over the city. She suspected that he missed the freedom of his house in Scotland. He was free to take long walks through the woods, to sit beside the sea at his leisure, and to feel the brisk breeze through an open window. Very quietly, Christine began making inquiries back in London and in Edinburgh. She was surprised to hear back very quickly from St. Mary's in Edinburgh, stating their need for a new music director, and their interest in her, from her reputation as a wonderful performer. She wrote back, accepting, and saying to give her one year. She knew that it would not take that long to end her time at the opera or for Erik to appoint someone to run the McLeod Architectural Firm in his stead. She knew that she would return, for his interest in the success in his business would mean a visit from time to time. She needed that time for something else...

It was over dinner that Christine decided to tell him her news. The weather outside had turned warm and humid, and she could see, daily, how miserable he was. As she cut into her lamb, she cleared her throat softly.

"I was thinking," she said, once she was sure he was paying attention to her, "that now would be a good time to return to Scotland."

"And why is that?" There was suppressed hope in his voice. "You've made a life and a name for yourself here. Why get rid of that?"

Christine shrugged slightly. "I can return whenever I like, and you'd have the firm here, so we would have to come back. I've had my fill of success for now. I can always get back into it if I please. The London house is so proud of me that they said I can come in whenever I like to request a special appearance. Archie will see to it that they keep their word. In the meantime, I've been offered the position of choir director at St. Mary's in Edinburgh."

There was a clink of metal on china as Erik set down his fork. "Christine," he said, around the small mouthful of greens, "you've never even been to Edinburgh. How do you know you'd like it there?"

She smiled, reaching over to cover his hand with her much smaller one. "I've seen its beauty through your eyes, and through Archie's stories, and through the pictures I've seen."

"It's perpetually damp, chilly, windy—I don't understand why you'd want to give this up to go there."

"I have nothing here but a house and servants. Everything I have is in England, and London's just a few days journey from town."

"A few bumpy days through the hills and down roads that can be horrible, depending on the weather."

"If it is so horrid," she asked, a small smile tugging at her lips, "why do you miss it so?"

Erik stared at her for a long moment before turning his hand under hers, lacing his fingers through hers, and looking at her with something like disbelief. "You would leave Italy for Scotland? Lovely, historic Italy, for damp and dreary Scotland?"

"You forget that 'damp and dreary Scotland' is the home of the famed Baron McLeod, and I happen to love him very much." She gave his fingers a small squeeze. "Besides, one cannot start a family in Venice. Too much water."

Erik frowned. "Who said anything about starting a family?" She did not answer, but continued to gaze at him in apparent wonder. "What is it?"

"God has given us another chance, my darling." Her lips were drawn into an irresistibly bright smile, her eyes glistening.

It took Erik a minute to realize what she was speaking about. Then, understanding dawned on him, and he squeezed her hand back.

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The trip back was long, but enjoyable. The pair of them had managed to slip into France undetected by law enforcement, although they had given up the search for their masked man many years ago. After a short jaunt to see Michelle in Paris, they stopped in Calais for several days, where Madam Giry had recently moved. Their arrival was apparently a surprise, but a welcome one. Meg was living down the street with her husband, a burly Welshman named Joseph Williams. After several days in France, and after a very quiet ceremony, the pair of them were on their way to Dover, then to Edinburgh. The North Sea took its toll on Christine, who spent most of the remainder of their trip in the latrine.

The solid dock was a welcome feeling under Christine's feet, and she smiled, pointing, when she caught sight of two men standing a short distance away. One of them had windswept brown hair and eyes that matched the gray sea.

Archie Palmer was beaming from ear to ear. He shook hands with Erik and hugged Christine, lifting her off her tiny feet and spinning her slightly before putting her back down. As they headed away from the little boat that had delivered them, Archie wrapped an arm around an unsteady Christine.

"Alright there, misses?"

She smiled weakly. "I want to sleep for a thousand years."

Archie's companion laughed. Christine smiled at Samuel. "Still around, are you, Sam?"

The older man chuckled again. "My dear, wild horses could not keep me away."

Christine's smile widened. "Then I am happy for you," she said quietly, leaning up to kiss his cheek.

As they made their way through town, Christine could not help but notice that people were whispering as they passed, some waving at Erik, and a number of women looking resentful. Archie leaned close to Christine. "You wouldn't believe the stir you two have created. The Baron McLeod, the most eligible and confirmed bachelor in town, suddenly with only one woman and a babe on the way? The rumors were everything from that he had married some hag from Albania to an affair with an Italian beauty. I don't think I heard anything about a Swedish opera singer. And here I thought I had them up in arms."

"Why is that?"

Archie grinned over at Samuel. "Well, we needed a way to allow Sam to spend as much time with me as possible," he said quietly. "So I married his sister."

Erik, who was climbing into the carriage that Archie had arranged for them, slipped slightly. "What?"

Once they were all settled inside, Archie and Samuel launched into the story of how it had happened that Archie had married Samuel's sister, Sabrina, a well known London socialite who had a taste for anything expensive, as well as a quiet taste for women as well as men. Her marriage to Archie ensured that she could have over whomever, whenever, and Samuel had moved onto a small cottage on Archie's property. No one seemed to see the carriages that came, often bearing a man, a woman, or both, and everyone seemed ignorant that Samuel seldom slept in his own house, let alone his own bed.

Soon, they were headed up a long drive, and Christine looked out of the window to view her new home. Her mouth fell open. Erik had told her that the house was large, but that was an understatement. It was built formidably on a bluff overlooking the sea, and was made almost entirely from smooth stone. There were balconies and verandas, and Christine could see a large garden, as well.

As the carriage pulled to a halt, several young men hurried forward, quickly helping Christine down and taking down the luggage that had arrived with them. They bowed at both of them, and Christine heard Archie say, "Let's leave the newlyweds alone, shall we?"

The carriage trundled away, and Christine was standing, staring up at the house with wonder. She heard the front door open, and she tore her gaze away to see George hustling toward them. "Welcome home, sir."

"Everything still in order?" Erik asked, as they began heading inside.

"Yes, sir. We've moved in most of the Baroness's things, but I believe a few more things are on the way?"

"Yes, some of it is still in Venice. It will arrive with her maid and her husband."

"So the lady will have her own help?"

Christine had stopped listening to the conversation and was staring around her in awe. She could not believe Erik owned this massive house. It was decorated fairly traditionally, a long line of portraits of McLeods and their families lining the wall. She noticed that there was not one of Erik.

"One day," he whispered in her ear. "Once we're all settled in and we've started our family."

She smiled up at him, and heard George take his leave. Sliding into his arms, Christine sighed and buried her face in his chest. Finally, she was home.

_**25 Years Later**_

Against her face, the spray of the sea was cool and welcome. It was the mildest day of the month so far, reminding her of the weather two months before, when summer was closing and just before autumn. The glass that filled her hands was still nearly half full, but she paid it no mind. She was just thinking of turning and returning to the house when she heard a small voice calling out to her, and heard distant footsteps pounding down the hill toward her.

A small boy, four years old and named Colin, was racing down the hill toward the woman. Beaming, she opened her arms and welcomed him into them when he raced her. Behind him, her husband and son, the boy's father, were slowly making their way toward her. Ewan waved at her, the wind catching his dark hair and ruffling it a bit. Christine smiled at her son as she set Colin back on his feet.

Ewan and Erik finally reached her and Ewan grabbed her in a hug. Christine was struck again by how much Ewan looked like his father. The only difference was Ewan's face, a copy of what Erik's would have been without the scars. When she was finally to get a look up into his face, she smiled.

"Look how handsome you are," she said softly. "We've missed you so!" She kissed his cheek, and allowed Erik to take her arm, helping her back up the slope. "Have you seen Kirsty yet?"

Ewan shook his head, lifting Colin from the ground and up onto his shoulders. "Not yet," he said. "Is she here?"

"Arrived yesterday." Once they had reached the top of the hill, Christine pointed to where a girl with brown curls and chocolate eyes was chatting animatedly to another young lady. "Is Anne alright, dear? She looks a bit pale."

"Just the trip," he said bracingly as he let Colin down. Once the boy was out of earshot, Ewan turned to them, beaming. "I'm going to be a father again!"

Later, after dinner, Christine found herself sitting outside in the garden, wrapped in a warm coat with her daughters and the wives of her sons. Kirsty was retelling a story of a time when, as children, Ewan had snuck into her room during the day to hide a toad under her pillow.

"You two have fought since before you were born," Christine said, laughing. "You fought in my womb and you fought over who was to be born first. You've been fighting for almost 25 years, now."

"And I've been living with it for seventeen years," Fiona muttered. Out of the corner of her eye, Christine saw that Fiona was sulking again. Recently, she had found that the man who was currently the object of her affections was busy being affectionate with several other women in town. She spend most of the days shut up in her room, only emerging for meals where Erik and Christine made very forced conversation with her. At seventeen, Christine felt that she was too young to be married and tried to discourage her from getting too serious so soon.

Next to Fiona, Leda shook her head silently. Her stormy gray eyes closed momentarily before she stood. "If you'll excuse me, I'm getting a bit chilly. I think I'll go find Elijah. Fiona, can you help me? I'm horrible at finding him." She smiled brilliantly, her white teeth contrasting with her olive skin and dark hair.

Fiona seemed to cheer up a bit at the prospect of being needed by her lovely Greek sister-in-law, and she hopped to her feet, leading Leda back inside.

"He's probably in the library with John, same place as always." Kirsty sighed and sipped her wine. "Same place as always, and Leda knows that. She's always been a love when it comes to Fiona."

"Fiona needs an artist, or a musician, or a poet," Anne said, "not some nobleman. She needs someone to sweep her off her feet and make her truly happy."

Anne, who was usually very quiet, once again made Christine quiet and thoughtful. She seldom spoke, but when she did, she showed a wisdom beyond her years. Anne was a pretty socialite with a flair for the flute, and Ewan, with his master skills on a piano and in composition, had been the perfect match for her. Erik, who had been working on a project with Anne's father, invited their family for dinner. The first time he had lain eyes on Anne, Ewan, who was as nimble as a cat and seemed to have just as many lives, had stumbled over his chair when he first rose to greet her. A small woman with red hair and bright blue eyes, Anne had been a perfect match for her oldest son.

Leda, on the other hand, was the complete opposite of her husband. Elijah had been raised, wanting for nothing, while Leda had made a name for herself, working hard and eventually singing on the same Venice stage Christine had once performed on. She was beautiful and curvy, and Elijah had been enamored with her at once, but had quickly found that the one thing Leda had not done on her way up from nothing was to use her body. The Greek beauty had forced Elijah to prove that he loved her for more than her voice, more than her body, and more than any woman he may meet ever again. It had taken the better part of the year to convince Leda that he was such a man.

Standing out over all her children was Kirsty. Ewan's twin, she was the complete opposite of him. Where Ewan was handsome and brooding, Kirsty was a vision of innocence and calm. A performer as well, Kirsty seemed to have decided that she may not marry for many years. John Palmer was a good friend of hers who kept her image clean while she pretended to be a doting companion. In truth, John was no more interested in women than his father (he occasionally joked that the only times his parents had shared a bed was to conceive him). They had been friends since they had been young, and they remained close even now. They bickered and teased like Christine and Archie had, and when she was lonley, John would cheer her up, making faces and cooking treats for her.

Now, as Anne excused herself to chase after Colin, Kirsty and Christine were left alone. Kirsty scooted closer to her mother, resting her head on her shoulder. Christine's hair was remarkably untainted by gray, and from behind, they would look almost indistinguishable. However, when a pair of hands rested against her shoulders, Christine smiled.

"You aren't getting bored, are you?"

Kirsty looked up. "Or afraid of the small children running around?"

Erik laughed heartily as he sat down on Christine's other side. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine." She raised her hands slightly as Kirsty slid to rest her head in Christine's lap. "Just fine, nothing to worry about." Her fingers found a curl on Kirsty's head, and Christine recalled her daughter as a small child, in this exact same position, Christine playing with her hair even then.

"You'd say if you needed to rest, wouldn't you?" This time, it was Kirsty who spoke, reminding Christine of how concerned her family were with her.

"I'm just fine, darling. I'm feeling much better. I may retire early, though. You won't mind will you?" Her question was directed at Erik, who shook his head.

"I may go with you," he said, yawning. "I'm getting too old for all of this."

"I'll keep them entertained." Kirsty hopped up, kissing her mother's cheek and hugging her father before heading back inside. Erik watched her go.

"She's grown up so much," he said quietly.

"They all have." Christine leaned her head on his arm. "Fiona will have married and moved out before we know it. Then it will be just us again."

Erik stretched his legs out in front of him. "It's nearly just us now, as it is." His lips rested against the top of her head and his arms wrapped around her, making her feel tiny and safe. "Let's go get some sleep. You need to rest."

"It's just the flu, Erik, I'm getting over it!"

"I know," he said, "but I have to make sure that you're healthy when Fiona moves out."

"Why is that?"

He rose, taking her into his strong arms and carrying her inside. "I'll be busy with you reminding you of why we had children in the first place."

Christine giggled. "I think I'm up for it now."

Erik's dark eyebrow rose. "That so."

Christine nodded, and let him carry her up to bed.

_A/n No epilogue. I've been thinking a lot about the _Harry Potter_ epilogue and how dissatisfying it was, so no epilogue with this story. Hope you all enjoyed it—thanks to my regular readers and reviewers, and to everyone who read along. No idea what's up next, but you may not hear from me for a while. I'm going into my senior year and I have a feeling that I'm about to get my butt kicked. Wish me luck!_

_My advice to you is to listen to the entire "American Pie" album by Don McClean and to rock out to "Everybody Loves Me, Baby." Eat a pot pie, but have a salad to balance it out. Stay away from trans fat and beer that has tons of carbs (I recommend Sam Adams Light and Beck's). Drink a cup of coffee—not a pot. Have a glass of red wine and do a boogie with yourself when nobody's watching. Peace out._


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